Never The End
by BlazeInfinity
Summary: "Morrowind was a great nation long before you lizardfolk had even hatched, and it will be a great nation long after you're gone." Can nothing but the will, unity and faith of a people truly change history, once and for all? Rated M for adult language and sliiiiightly adult scenes.
1. Mephala's Blessed Night

**a new Elder Scrolls fanfiction**

**from BlazeInfinity**

**_Never The End_**

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><p><em>So, because Morrowind is my favourite Elder Scrolls country ever, I hate the fact that it's devastated and suppressed now, thus I started writing this. Read, at your leisure. Review, also at your leisure. Ask me to review your stories, even, at your leisure. I don't mind.<em>

_My reason for the M rating is because I have no idea where I'm going to go with this. I'm going to write more chapters, after all, a revolution does not occur in one day, but I have got a pretty loose plan about this. You might see swearing. You might see gore. You might even see lovemaking. I just want to make completely sure._

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><p>"This is our country, Argonian," Lleran hissed, his sword drawing ominously quick from its sheath. "And we want it back."<p>

The ebony-haired Dunmer didn't waste a second. A combination of quick steps forward, the thirst for vengeance overtaking him. Rage. The thirst for battle. And more importantly, to see the lizard's blood decorating the immortal walls of Mournhold. But he had patience. Without it, he'd already have lost it all. The desire to have wrath, to achieve the revenge he dreamt of, to free his land and his people once and for all... had to wait until it was possible. He'd have to restrain himself. So one day, the skies could turn red.

... That day came everytime he felt his hand grip the sword. A thousand times. But he knew, he had to wait. Wait.

His sword stopped at the Argonian soldier's throat, pinning him to the wall, as he desperately tried begging for mercy in various universally recognized gestures, such as pressing two hands together as if in prayer that Lleran did not actually recognize, or even care to.

"Does it please you Argonians?" he smirked, the scar across his face distorting the grin even more. "You want to see us crushed, no? Into the dirt, destroyed, _enslaved_. Like we've enslaved you in the past. You want retaliation, you want what you in your sad little opinion call justice. Call it justice in Black Marsh if you like. But this – is – _Morrowind_!"

A thousand voices howled that name in the night together with him. Literally. Hundreds took up the cry, screaming _"Morrowind!" _throughout the Temple Courtyard. Suddenly, throughout Almalexia, a quiet rustle was heard. In the midnight darkness, a million swords were drawn. The punlovers would forever say, _'That night the moon turned _dark_.'_

The day Lleran was waiting for _had come_. It was _tomorrow_.

With that idea in mind, he slashed the throat of the Argonian, sending him deep into the realms of death, just before he was to scream for help, reassured by Lleran's temporary lack of concentration.

The world was sleeping, seduced by the soft, tender hands of the night. But the whole city of Almalexia was awake. Awake, with the spirits of all that it held holy, from St. Veloth, through Indoril Nerevar, the Almsivi, the Nerevarine, and ultimately Azura herself, leading them, with gentle but firm hands. A hundred thousand blades, kindly supplied by the Morag Tong, stolen from armories, or salvaged from ancestral tombs suddenly glistened in the light of the moon, altogether. Had one looked from the walls upon the city, lured by the quiet shouts echoing from ancient Mournhold, from the long-ruined great Temple, one would've seen what they'd think, if they didn't know better, was the giant reflection of the moon on a lake.

And then they'd get struck by a flaming arrow or struck down by an assassin's blade, like hundreds of Black Marsh-loyal guards on the walls.

The Morag Tong was no joke to mess with. A long time of suppression, also a supposed form of 'retaliation' according to the An-Xileel, under the Argonians had not gone unnoticed. This night, one after another, Argonian military governors throughout Morrowind were slowly dying in agony, tormented one after another. And subtle, but to-the-point messages were left behind on their bodies, saying, _"Mephala protects her people. The Hist shall wither and die at her touch."_

The mainline Dunmer resistance, the Nerevarine Caiamarh Group, naming themselves in honor of the Dark Elven hero, who saved Morrowind on various occasions in the Third Era, was less frank. Their alliance with the Morag Tong was cordial at best, because the Group spent the last century hiding in secluded locations such as the monastery of Holamayan off the coast of Vvardenfell, and in Solstheim, where they banded around themselves most Dark Elven refugees there, convincing them to reclaim their homeland and liberate it from oppression for the last and final time. Thus the Tong saw the Group as rather politicized and evasive of actual fighting, rather stooping to terrorism.

The alliance was, in actuality, Lleran's own achievement. As the head of Group operations in the Almalexia region, he saw that the Morag Tong hated the Argonian domination, as well as the Camonna Tong and most remaining Ashlanders, who were forced over the centuries by Morrowind's unseemly fate to join House Dunmer society but remained seclusive. The Camonna Tong had been mostly exterminated, but Lleran discovered several remaining cells of it in the Almalexia area, so he met them all and offered them a deal they'd not refuse.

The ultimate kick in the Argonian arse that'd send them flying straight out of Morrowind.

Finally, the Argonian garrison in Almalexia had woken up. In Mournhold, a sole tower sounded a warning signal from a horn, but it didn't help at all, because by the time most soldiers woke from their lovely slumber, they found themselves dead, slaughtered mercilessly by the passing revolt.

No Dunmer in Mournhold, with the rare exception of a _very_ few loyal to the Argonians, slept this night. And those few never slept again anyway.

Lleran with a proud eye looked on as his kinsmen tore down a rather stubborn guard tower that simply refused to fall, that stood on the edges of the Governor's Palace… the former Royal Palace. The _future_ Royal Palace.

He was the head of operations in the Almalexia area, and he was going to make sure as hell that no other city pulls such a wonderful revolt as his did.

Then again, he wasn't sure. At Holamayan, the rebels had assembled a fleet of mercenaries, kindly secretly hired from far away outlands by the Camonna Tong. Mostly Nords and Bretons, but it made no difference. All Lleran cared, they might've hired Argonians if that'd help to free Morrowind from occupation. This fleet was ordered to land in Necrom and, after assisting the revolt there, cleanse the countryside of Argonian soldiers.

"_Death to Black Marsh! Long live Morrowind! Resdayn! Resdayn!" _hundreds of voices echoed as a battering ram made the last remaining hinge of the Royal Palace gate explode, shattering and sending shards of metal in all directions. The gate fell.

And then was when Lleran finally had a battle like he wanted. In the Palace, the Argonians had gotten ready and waiting, ready to fight a last futile fight. _Die _a last futile _death_.

The end of all approached threateningly fast for them. Just as they were about to clash, line against line of infantry, with the rebels, who Lleran actually started worrying about since their armor was rather lacking in comparison to the garrison's, the gate on the other side of the Palace shattered into pieces and hundreds upon hundreds of Dunmer piled straight onto the Argonians from the other side. It was a slaughter. Shattering Lleran's hopes of actually having some battle today. Oh well, the revolution was far from over. There'd have to be some opportunities later.

"Not a bad job here, Lleran," he heard a female, yet very masculine – somewhat tough – voice behind him. Turning, he saw an auburn-haired, Dunmeri woman who wore that hair of hers in a rather long braid stretching down her back to her waist.

Lleran turned grim. "Anatwyne."

Anatwyne Indaron was none other than the very head of the Nerevarine Caiamarh Group. And she was _here_. Just when things were going great.

"I thought you were commanding the fleet at Holamayan?" he asked rather irritably, hoping these words would not be replied to and he'd turn out to be hallucinating. This was HIS moment! No one from up there was supposed to intervene until the revolt was successfully over!

"I gave it to Chazmag." Chazmag was a Morrowind-bred Orc, proud supporter of the Group. He was trustworthy. _But that don't help the fact that, Azura protect me, she's here and she's gonna ruin everything for me oh dammit _"What, aren't you happy to see me? The commanding officer of the Group has to be at the capital, doesn't she?"

Lleran forced out a smile. Through great effort. "… Of course I am happy to see you, Anatwyne. Welcome to our little… party."

She nodded, curtly. "So am I, Lleran. But-"

The darkhaired Dunmer was relieved as never before when a messenger came running, coughing, and almost brutally interrupting her (because Lleran was damn sure she was going to say something he wouldn't like, evident from that 'But', such as criticize his battle plan), saying, "Sera Lleran, sera Anatwyne, the Palace has fallen. The Argonians are sounding retreat, but it won't help, since not many of them will survive long enough to escape."

Anatwyne looked at Lleran, approvingly (which was a new thing to him, because she rarely ever looked approvingly at him). "Again, good work."

Lleran suddenly felt a surge of pride, not for the first time today. You'd have too, even if you were not Dunmeri – for you needed only to hear what he heard, and see what he saw. Heard every corner of the city of light and magic suddenly turn quiet, before chanting, _'Morrowind! Morrowind!' – _as they saw the old banner of Resdayn rise, victorious, from the incredibly beautiful and, once again, _Royal _Palace.

"I know," he said, smiling.


	2. A Grim Celebration

**chapter 2**

**of the epic Elder Scrolls fanfiction by BlazeInfinity**

_**Never The End**_

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><p><em>Recommended background music: Rise Against – Broken Mirrors andor the Morrowind title theme_

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><p>"Alright, maggots," Tarvyn Fathyron, a Dunmer who boasted anomalously short and cropped auburn hair that ended just above his ears, a newly appointed colonel, said to his new recruits, seasoned by only a single slaughter the day before, on a very fine day in a training yard hidden amongst the buildings of Almalexia. "You have the proud honor of being the 2nd Battalion of Mournhold's 1st Regiment of the Free Resdayn Army. Don't blame me for the lack of any originality there, I didn't think of the name. Anyway – I share some of that pride, because I happen to be your commanding officer, Colonel Tarvyn Fathryon. Because we rather lack on people of experience in actual warfare, until I train a few of you to do anything other with a weapon than just blindly end a life and do anything other with your head than just ram it into a wall, all battalions of the Regiment answer directly to me, you included. When I see some signs of promise from one of you, I'll select you to lead the battalion. Are we clear?"<p>

_Perfectly, _thought Lleran, who was carefully observing this procedure, sitting on a chair on a gallery above the yard. The recruits murmured in assent.

"Are _we clear?_" roared Tarvyn. This time, the reply was a loud "_YES!"_

"_That's _what I want to hear. When I ask something, you answer like that. Scream. It helps a soldier, trust me."

Lleran, of course, grew up as a street rat, but when the hell did screaming become helpful to a soldier? No matter. Tarvyn used to be part of the Imperial Legion back in Solstheim. He'd know.

"You maggots think you're invincible, no doubt. Just yesterday the whole shitload of you sent the Argonians running from Almalexia, cowering as rocks rained on their backs. Sadly, men, if you think this mess is over, you're wrong. Lleran up there's a member of the Grand Council," Lleran waved, smiling and mentally noting that Tarvyn did not mention that the Grand Council temporarily consisted of not, as tradition, the heads of the Great Houses, but of the leaders of the revolt, so it was hardly a notion of rank, "our government, now ruling until a king is crowned and the Argonians are driven back into their marshes. He'll tell you if you ask that we've not won yet. You might've heard of fleets arrayed in Holamayan and Solstheim, prepared to reinforce us. The problem is, they won't help unless you want them to. Soldiers of Morrowind, get ready. The storm's arising. The Argonians are a strong people. That's true," he turned to a recruit who disdainfully scoffed, "when those gates to Oblivion a few centuries ago came along, they brutally charged into them and Mehrunes Dagon had no choice but to close them or his own realm would've been conquered. Not to mention, they conquered _us_."

He stood silent for a moment.

"But now we're awake. We're awake, aren't we? So we must never fall asleep again. We have risen, and if we want to stay here, the rulers of our own realm, we must never fall asleep on our laurels. We've not yet won our freedom. This is just the beginning of a long struggle."

"You believe you can do it, which is admirable. Yesterday, your will and refusal to collapse to your fates brought us a free Almalexia again. You think you're _heroes_. You surely know how to kill, no doubt. But that's not enough at all."

"You can kill. You've proven that. But now you must ask yourself a question. _What now?_"

In a wonderful demonstration of how to increase tension, he paused for a while.

"You must learn to _defend _yourselves. _Attack _your enemies. You must learn to _fight_. You've broken free, now you have a brief while of peace until the Argonians send an army northwards. You can trust in your ability to _kill_, but a _murderer _is not a _warrior. _A warrior must _fight. _A warrior must _win. _Only when you're a warrior, shall you be able to defend your country. Only when you're a warrior, shall you be able to break yourself and your people free… _permanently. _Then, not after a slaughter that is in no way reminiscent of a battle, shall you be true _heroes_."

Lleran's head spun with the amount of terms listed in this increasingly difficult to understand speech. It essentially contributed to the fact that, though not to the notice of the recruits and their commander, he fell asleep.

He woke up an hour later, Tarvyn standing by him, his arms crossed. Lleran smiled.

"Nice speeches, there."

"Indeed, if you were so interested by them that you fell asleep."

"Sorry. You don't think you're being just a bit too harsh on them? Nothing wrong in a little belief in yourself. Raises morale. We need soldiers with faith in themselves."

"A true soldier should fight because of logic, not of faith," Tarvyn said proceeding down the gallery, which circled the whole courtyard, which was, as you might want to know, in the middle of a manorlike building, while Lleran stood up and followed. "Faith is blind. Logic is blunt."

"Sharp wit, that. But unnecessary semantics at that," Lleran replied, with a logically blunt expression on his face and a logically blunt and practically anti-emotional voice, "please give me something that actually counters what I mean. And you know what I mean."

"We have to exterminate the belief among our men that they can do anything," the colonel began, nodding meaninglessly in the process, "because they can't. They're filled with good ideas and undiscovered capacities, but they don't _know _how to do anything. They've not fought a single actual battle. There's a difference between starting an uprising in the middle of night when no one's expecting it and fighting an open field battle."

Lleran scratched his chin. "True enough."

The colonel suddenly laughed and pat Lleran on the back. "Come on, man, to the nearest tavern. Everyone's celebrating, and they're definitely going to put us a few drinks on the house."

"Okay."

They exited via a door in the gallery, went down the corridors of the manor (which, namely, belonged to some Argonian tax collector whose head had to be buried apart from the rest of his body… just like his arms, legs, and heart, because nobody managed determining that it indeed was his with certainty) which was transformed into a military base for Tarvyn's 1st Regiment. Then down into Godsreach, and into the Winged Guar, a tavern rumored to have once served the Nerevarine himself.

Once they opened the door, the two had to jump back because immediately a drunk (and unconscious) person fell outside. At least three separate bands of minstrels were performing, trying to eclipse (and managing to produce a dead right spectacular cacophony) each other with formerly banned songs such as _The March of the Nerevarine_, or _Hai Resdaynia_, or even _Vivec's Seventh Temple Chant, Revised_. Endless amounts of drunkards were clashing their tankards together so loud, so quick and so strongly that the tankards simply fell on the ground and spilled. Even more endless amounts of drunkards were singing along to those minstrels, and singing desperately out of tune. Worst was one who seemed to be a priest – when the minstrels started on _Nerevar the Twice-Betrayed _that had been so controversial it had been banned already before the Argonians, he started singing along… a minute late. And no, not from the point the song had been at then. From the beginning. Consequentially a few singers made mistakes, swearing and cursing the priest in the process.

"Samia! Two maztes over here," Tarvyn shouted, as they sat down by a table, to the bartenderess, a raven-haired Bosmer girl with a rather impressive figure and a décolleté to match it that Lleran found difficult to draw his eyes away from. She threw him an open-to-much-interpretation smile and was there only a few seconds later with two tankards of ale.

"So, brother," Tarvyn said after swallowing a gulp of mazte, "tell me. What's the news from the other cities?"

"Strong one, this," Lleran tasted some mazte and said, "Anyway, the mercenary fleet from Holamayan landed outside Necrom last night. Our orc friend Chazmag was successful. The city fell, and the territories to the west and north have been cleansed of Argonian forces."

"Understood. What about our lands?"

It took a few seconds for Lleran to realize Hlaalu Tarvyn Fathryon, Colonel of the Free Resdayn Army was referring to Narsis District, the ancestral lands of the Hlaalu, essentially stripped from them once they were forced, as most of the Great Houses, to flee to Solstheim, by the Argonians. Lleran gave an apologetic look.

"Narsis failed, my friend. I'm sorry. The rebels there clashed with the Argonians and were mercilessly slaughtered… Too little Morag Tong helped out in that revolt, too little Hlaalu around…"

"Don't talk strategy to me, I know it better than you. Kragenmoor?"

"Made it, barely. Ever heard of Marena Norvayn?"

The colonel shook his head.

"She's a descendant of an old noble family. Served the Argonians, in fact, so well she became the military second-in-command of the governor of Kragenmoor. Thus nobody expected her to stab the governor, who was the only important Argonian in the whole city, just as the rebels were clashing with the governor's troops. Then she convinced everyone who witnessed the murder, since most of them were Dunmer, to lie when asked about it – suppose an assassin jumped through the window and stuck a knife through the governor's throat before Marena pushed him out that same window. Then she recalled the troops just as they were winning, citing the governor's death as a valid reason – and then tricked them, not discriminating between Argonian, Dunmer or otherwise, though I've no idea of how exactly, to have a garrison-wide feast in honor of the governor's sad fate. The wine they were served was poisoned."

Tarvyn's jaw hung ajar. "All of them?"

"All of them. Then she opened the stronghold's gate to the rebels, armed them, led them out of Kragenmoor into the surrounding area and quietly took every unfriendly fortress in a fifty-mile radius. Just as eagerly the next morning a banner with the Moon-and-Star symbol on it was flying above those fortresses."

"Sounds like a helluva woman, her. I should write her, thank her on behalf of House Hlaalu."

"You do that. Though knowing her, she'll probably ask for a reward, namely being accepted into the House."

"You say that as if it was a bad thing."

"It isn't, just know this. The Norvayn family has been virtually dead for centuries. By the time of the Nerevarine, it had been reduced to a few branches of which none had truly been part of any House but Dunmer. Unless you count her grandmother serving as chief of security for the Caldera Mine in, may it rest in peace, Vvardenfell."

Tarvyn slightly drew back. "Sometimes I worry on where you get this entire useless trivia about people."

"I can explain, if you like. I double-check every person I learn of's family history up to Prophet Veloth and the Chimer."

The officer laughed, quietly.

"Evident. Okay, so Kragenmoor's ours. Good news, them, gives Almalexia a secure flank. What about the far north? The Telvanni?"

Lleran chuckled. "The Telvanni had quite unceremoniously kicked Argonia's soldiers out of Port Telvannis and their other towns. Primarily, their strategy consisted of conjuring up lightning bolts that shot the very few Argonians there into the sea… and then shocking the sea itself with lightning, too, to make them sizzle. You've heard about how they've originally been _occupied _to begin with, right?"

Tarvyn nodded. Everyone on both Solstheim and occupied Morrowind had heard the story of how Black Marsh 'occupied' Telvanni lands. First, they built a so-called 'fleet' of what was barely seaworthy boats that couldn't have been used in naval battles if Daedra themselves steered them, and filled them with hundreds of Argonians armed to the teeth. The Telvanni saw it arriving, laughed to themselves and absent-mindedly conjured a seastorm that wrecked the 'navy' in such a way that no actual witnesses remained. Then word came from Argonia that had an army of Argonians simply swimming across to the Telvanni islands. This time, the Telvanni parleyed, and although they had to kill at least three messengers and at least a thousand soldiers with lightning bolts until the Argonians agreed, they fought out an armistice that allowed the Telvanni to remain masters of their lands, as long as loyal to Black Marsh.

"Yeah. Anyway, though they might've not shown it, they desperately hated having to submit to ones who were both mostly 'peasants' and their former slaves. So when they heard of what happened, this morning we got a message given by a messenger that came by guild guide – House Telvanni holds itself part of a free Resdayn. To enforce the statement, some fool of a Telvanni tried starting a public action – the trial of the flag of Argonia. He took the banner, set up a makeshift court in the middle of some unknown tower settlement called Tel Mirnora, placed the banner on where the accused typically sits, and held a trial. The banner was accused of 'being a symbol of an unjust regime that has without any legitimate casus belli invaded, occupied and illegally annexed a sovereign nation' and given a lawyer, since it 'has not hired its own'. There even was a jury. The Telvanni fellow made himself the prosecutor, whiles his father, an oh-so-slightly insane person to begin with, became the judge. The jury unanimously found the banner guilty, and the judge declared that the punishment would be it being hanged, drawn and quartered. I really have no idea how the poor piece of fabric could've survived it." Lleran described, with a rather joyous, fun-filled expression on his face. "Though I think, personally, knowing them, most people in Tel Mirnora just went along their dark and grim way not caring at all about the flag's execution."

Tarvyn shook his head. "You can't be serious."

"I'm dead serious. Go ask Anatwyne if you'd like."

"… What about Blacklight? I've heard something about a force marching in that direction," Tarvyn demonstrated another of his meaningless nods saying this, while Lleran turned back to look at him after a brief while of staring at Samia's impressive breasts over by the bar.

"Blacklight? Going to fall without a siege, it is. The Argonians there talk of committing mass suicide, my informers in the Camonna Tong say. There's only a hundred of them in the whole city there, that's the whole garrison – but the forces we've sent northwest consist of a thousand, mostly Nord mercenaries from Skyrim. Good men. Strong men. Led by Augrim the Deathless."

"Augrim? I know him. Good pick. He doesn't charge much, but he's always loyal to his employer until the contract's done."

"Hence why I picked him."

Silence stood awhile, before Lleran got up. "Hold on a sec."

Tarvyn saw him go to the counter and lean on it. He said something to Samia. Samia leant in too. And then he whispered something in her ear. She giggled and whispered something back.

A few seconds later, Lleran was back, Tarvyn grinning at him, and him grinning back. "Scored, didn't you?"

"I might've. Thanks for showing me this place. Speaking of women, how are you and my sister?"

Tarvyn's grin disappeared. "She's an Indoril, Lleran. I'm a Hlaalu. No Indoril will ever marry a Hlaalu. No Indoril will ever _be allowed_ to marry a Hlaalu."

"A very backward point of view, my friend. Indoril is clinging on to its last days. Unless it forges alliances, it'll fall, and it understands that. So I wouldn't be so sure."

Tarvyn leant back. "How does it happen anyway that your sister is a member of the most legendary and once most powerful House in the country, and you grew up as a street rat?"

Lleran mimicked Tarvyn's meaningless nod and said, "Long story."

Tarvyn knew enough of his friend to know that this meant he didn't want to talk about it, so he changed the subject. "Have you guys in the Grand Council finally selected a liable candidate for a king?"

Lleran threw his head back, closed his eyes, remained still for a few seconds and went back into his old position. "First, not yet. Second, if we were, we'd have announced. Third, we have many options. For example, we have a granddaughter of a woman who claims she was the lover of the Nerevarine himself. That girl indeed looks rather physically similar to the Nerevarine, for example, she shares his dark skin," he let the joke settle in, "and some visionary proposed placing her on the throne. Imagine that, the Nerevarine's own granddaughter, ruling Morrowind! It's all wonderful, but in all seriousness, even while the Nerevarine had not yet disappeared on his journey to Akavir, women all over Morrowind pretended, and quite loudly, to have been his. It's understandable. He was a hero, and all. So as you understand, when you also factor in the many other supposed descendants of heroes, there are a lot of options. More rational people propose naming a leading figure in one or another Great House king, but nobody knows who, exactly. Helseth being dead and having no heirs, it's a difficult situation…"

"What about Morgiah?" Tarvyn interrupted. "Helseth's sister? She's got children, her son's ruling Firsthold right now…"

Lleran looked at him as if he was insane. "Name a ruler of a place in Summerset Isle as King of Resdayn? The first King of Resdayn since the Armistice with the Empire?"

"Fine, it's a bad idea…"

"It's a tragic idea. That only proves my point. We have trouble, Tarvyn, here. But it's not that important. Until we reclaim the whole of Morrowind, a king is redundant. The uprising in the former Dres lands, meanwhile, is still ongoing – I don't remember if I mentioned it. But since we failed to take Narsis, it's not going to succeed. What about your kin, and the fleet in Solstheim, by the way? Have you received any news from them?"

Tarvyn nodded, this time, not meaninglessly. Preparing for the revolt, the refugees in Solstheim had been forging weapons and training, under the supervision of the Great House councilors that had fled there. On the night of the revolt, a whole fleet of them, nineteen thousand warriors and at least thrice that number of people who were not intended to fight but to simply _return_, was to demand permission from the Imperial Legion commander on Solstheim to leave the island.

"They say the Legion commander there is stalling for time," as Tarvyn said this, Lleran nodded in such a manner that demonstrated that he already knew it, "always trying to avoid the actual decision on whether to let them go or not. The Empire remembers we were its territory, after all – if you want a poetic comparison, a dragon holds a wolf in its jaws but does not swallow it, and the wolf asks the dragon to be let go, because it desperately needs to hunt and eat – but the dragon does not know if the wolf will return after it does so."

"We've known this before we even prepared to board those ships. What would the dragon have of the wolf?"

"A promise to return to its jaws, perhaps?"

"We can't do that. And I know you mean not to keep such a promise, just make it in vain. The Imperials aren't dumb. They'd immediately send a legion in here. To make sure we keep that promise. And even if they didn't, such a promise being made in the first place would deal a blow to our morale."

"True. Well, you might want to know that the commander sympathizes. Himself, he's a Nord, a native of Solstheim. His own loyalty to the Empire, my dear relatives on Solstheim say, is rather shifty."

"What kind of man is he?"

"Hardy. Values hard work, steel will, has an ascetic lack of anything more than he truly needs. Loyal because of his oath, and disloyal because of his sympathies. If he was truly loyal, one hundred percent, he'd have referred the matter to the Emperor."

"True. I'll send him a messenger, try persuading him. If he does not agree, we'll simply have to escape Solstheim by force."

"Wouldn't be wise. You do realize the only reason the Empire has not yet made any signs of intending an advance upon Morrowind is because the Mede dynasty rules Cyrodiil, Skyrim, Hammerfell, High Rock, Valenwood and Summerset Isle by right of conquest? By the same right of conquest, they were unable to conquer Elsweyr and Black Marsh. By the same right of conquest, they lost Morrowind to Black Marsh."

"Doesn't make sense. If we were to hold this opinion, then Morrowind's occupation and annexation were legal, fueled by some sort of supposedly legally correct 'right of conquest' – there was no real _casus belli_!"

"Lleran, you're a smart, self-educated person, but sometimes you simply stay a street rat. You interpret words too literally. The phrase 'right of conquest' is a euphemism for 'no right'. No legal advisor from anywhere outside Cyrodiil, and even a few unbribable and uncrushable ones who generally end up executed within it, will ever hold the Mede dynasty to be legal. Similarly, no rationally thinking person will recognize Morrowind's annexation as legal as it was never recognized by any treaties. But the Mede dynasty is anomalously pragmatic in this case, and it's a wise thing too – they realize that if they do not recognize the validity of 'right of conquest' as legally invalid as it is – then everyone's going to use it against them, and state that their rule is not legally correct. Thus, the Empire they so struggled to rebuild will be either destroyed or forever portrayed as it is here, and in Black Marsh, and in Elsweyr, and even Skyrim, as an oppressive, dictatorial, _evil _regime – even more, it has no legal basis! On the other hand, if we would win this war, and sign a treaty that legalizes us as a free nation, the Mede dynasty would try to manipulate us into its sphere of influence. If it should fail at that, a war would no doubt break out."

Lleran knocked with his fingers on the table and sat, thinking for a while.

"Now I see," he said after a few minutes. "I see why you are trying to create a new, strong, modern army for us. Those kids, your regiment, they're our future. Only they can protect us from our ill fate that everyone just seems to decide for us."

"Exactly. We need a strong armed force not only to win our freedom, but to preserve it."

Lleran Andalas, temporary councilor of the Grand Council raised his tankard of mazte. Tarvyn Fathyron, Colonel of Mournhold's 1st Regiment of the Free Resdayn Army, raised his.

"To freedom."


	3. The First Strokes of Fortune

**Chapter 3 - Summons**

**of the epic Elder Scrolls fanfiction by BlazeInfinity**

_**Never The End**_

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><p>Lleran opened the door to his temporary room in a vacant manor in Godsreach. In came a male Dunmer, brown-haired, dressed in common linen shirt and pants but a rather luxurious silk cloak around his shoulders and a quill, some ink and some scrolls of paper in his hands, who Lleran gestured to an armchair by a burning fire. It was a comfortable room. An oak double bed, a number of shelves filled with books, a fireplace. And two armchairs, which he and the other Dark Elf now occupied.<p>

"Your name, sera scribe?" Lleran asked.

"Bradil Nerandas, sera."

"Good name. Right, man, get ready to write. Several diplomatic messages, therefore if I forget any details of etiquette, correct me. In Cyrodiilic- no, forget that. Write in Dunmeris, they'll get someone to translate. We make our demands here, not them."

The Grand Councilor jerked his head back to look at the ceiling for a few seconds before returning it to its original position. And then he started to dictate.

"_To sera Bjalfi, commander of the Imperial Legion on the island of Solstheim_

_My name is Lleran Andalas. You do not know me, and I admit sadly to not personally knowing you either - I have heard of you from a few of my associates- _scratch that. Make that 'kin' – Nords like that word. _I have heard of you from my kin in the island you have the imperial duty of commanding in. I wish you a fortunate future in commanding the island, and to defeat- _forget that, use 'utterly annihilate' – don't ask questions," he added when he saw a quizzical expression on the scribe's face, "you'll understand soon enough. _Utterly annihilate any enemies that may stand in your way and in particular any of your people that would be so unwise as to resist Imperial rule. A long and productive life to you, in enforcing the Empire's ways among your people._

_Such ways of justice I find completely understandable also in the case of thousands of Dunmer refugees, unable to leave their place of refuge there on Solstheim and return to their lands and liberate them from foreign oppression. I find it nothing less than the typical, quite just ways of the Empire to suppress and oppress until one is forced into being Imperial through and through no matter what their heart and soul say of this. It is, as it is often, quite truthfully no doubt, said in Empire lands, 'the spreading of civilization' and thus sacrifices have to be made._

_It is, however, I am sad to say, the deep wish of many people here, and amongst the refugees on Solstheim, to have them return here, to the land of their childhood and of their ancestors, to the land now fighting a desperate war for independence for an oppressive regime. I truly see how this does not work together with Imperial justice, and thus I am truly sad to see that many of the people of Morrowind do not._

_They cry, in the night, singing sad songs on the harbors of their refuges, their voices shivering all the way across the sea to the land of their birth. Voices, lifted high up in their faith that soon, everything will correct itself. Voices, lowered down quiet as bitter exiles in a foreign land. They suffer, crying over a homeland they had to leave in a fearful flight._

_If Imperial justice is indeed what I perceive it to be, you may not allow them to leave. But otherwise they must be allowed to leave. Morrowind is their home. If imperial justice sees it right, you may disown the Dunmer of their home. If not, you know what you must do._

_Lleran Andalas, Grand Councilor of the Kingdom of Resdayn_

_Given on 19th Midyear, 4E 178, Mournhold, Kingdom of Resdayn_"

Lleran took a deep breath. The scribe finished writing and set the scroll aside. "Is that all?"

"No. I'm afraid there'll be two more letters. Ready a new scroll."

Again, he maintained silence for a few seconds, looking up with his eyes closed, before starting again.

"_To Sorcalin Camoran, High King of the Aldmeri Dominion, Head of the Thalmor, Lord of Summerset Isle and King of Valenwood_

_By the time your Majesty receives this message, it is no doubt to me that, given the distance we have from you, your Majesty will only have just heard of Resdayn's liberation from Argonian hands, and the reestablishment of independent governmental institutions, including a new (albeit provisional) Grand Council, the first since Morrowind's occupation by the Argonians and the dismantling of the Council of King Helseth I. No doubt you will also initially dismiss it as a wild rumor. It is not. Morrowind has formally seceded, and a free Kingdom of Resdayn seeks to heal old wounds, old arguments our land has with other nations. We seek your recognition, and in exchange we will recognize you, because we currently, as far as formalities are concerned, seem to legally consider you still a part of the Empire. Just an illogical formality, naturally, because it's only a sideeffect of the fact that Morrowind has been off the map for so long. We never actually managed to recognize you because we weren't there. Thus now is the time to mend this mistake. We offer mutual recognition, and embassies to be established in the nearest possible opportunity in our countries. This is what all of Resdayn, and in particular its Grand Council offers. I offer some more, if your Majesty will listen._

_I am a man raised as a commoner, thus I will not hide behind much rhetoric. I will offer you a deal, straight out, and one to be kept quiet about. If our two nations would band together in an alliance, the fledgling shards of an Empire and the fledgling usurper of an Emperor's throne in Cyrodiil, which is precariously surrounded by enemies or at least simply hostile nations that have only recently broken free, would never succeed at any attempts to reoccupy Morrowind or Valenwood, and definitely not Summerset Isle. We – I – suggest an alliance, a military and economic one, not in any way political, and perhaps not even public. Cooperation, shall we say. I suggest creating from our nations steel claws that gnaw at all hostile nations dividing us like steel pincers crushing them inbetween._

_To carry out such a plan would require you to send me an emissary, a man you could truly trust, and a man well-versed in military strategy. I'd relay to him the exact details of such a concept. But I first want to offer it to you. Think of it, and carefully, your Majesty, before you reply, because either decision could have repercussions either you or I have not yet thought of for both our nations. _Add the same signoff I used in the previous letter. I trust you had written this in Dunmeris, like before?"

"I wouldn't have written so fast if I had to translate it."

"Great. Now, the next one's going to be simple, not a diplomatic message, doesn't need any etiquette, just so you know. Listen. _To Faithkiller. Pull back. No chance of victory. Your orders are to retreat towards Isramora. Five copies of this message shall be sent out. If you are reading this, that means you are to act in accordance and not bother about the fate of the other ones. Move quickly, before our messengers fall into Argonian hands. Flagstone._"

The scribe finished writing and put the scroll along with the others. "Shall I make five copies?"

Lleran, who was now absentmindedly looking out the window, was apparently woken by the question from some sort of trance. "No, no, thank you. Thank you for your services. Leave the scrolls on the desk."

With a quizzical expression, Bradil Nerandas left.

* * *

><p>"No, no, no and NO!" a Dunmer with barely any hair, on his head <em>or <em>face, screamed, slamming the round table around which the Grand Council, all with the exception of Lleran, sat, with his fists. "You can't make an Indoril king. Especially not _that _Indoril! He's a typical conservative, hotheaded old fool who constantly brings up the traditions topic. Always. I still remember he's been doing that when Helseth was king, and he was barely a child then! 'It's our ancient right to own slaves!' Slaves, my foot! If this bastard sits on the throne of Resdayn, we're all doomed. Morrowind can't afford a king who poses the threat of making us the thorn at the world's side again!"

Lleran, who quietly entered throught the door, moved alongside the table, barely noticeably. Though he was, to his dismay, noticed by Anatwyne, with a careful, monitoring look on her face, and Velsa Sarethi, a Redoran noble and, naturally, also a Grand Councilor, with a flirty look on her face. While Anatwyne's he met with a smile as if to say, 'Why the long face?', and for a second, she smiled too, he avoided Velsa's gaze. To his great sadness, he didn't quite feel the same way about her as she seemed to do about him and showed that at every occasion, too. Plus, he'd arranged for a meeting with Samia, the Bosmer bartenderess at the Winged Guar, this night – he had great hopes for the meeting, even if formally it was only a friendly evening sharing a wineskin. Lleran, being in origin off the streets, was incredibly happy he could afford good wines now. Though it was just one day and counting he could do that, it was still impressive to him. And he hoped that his first 'friendly evening' with an expensive wine as his weapon (and then something more, but that for later) would win him Samia.

"Sorry I'm late," Lleran casually apologized without the slightest apologetics in his tone, "so let me get right into this discussion of yours and say that if you all are talking about our dear informal leader of the Indoril, Llondryn Omalen, then please let me be frank and say I agree with Vonden. Yes, Vonden," he added as the bald Dunmer turned to him, surprised, "we indeed CAN agree on something. Omalen is a bad choice. I wouldn't say he'd return slavery or anything, but he's too obsessed with the old ways to accept any new ones, more plausible in the modern world. And he's not manipulative, brave, and willful and all those traits a good king needs, either. Just out of interest, who here proposed Omalen in the first place?"

"I did," said a male Dunmer with long black hair reaching his waist.

"Ah, serjo Golven Andas, my dear friend. I do not believe you wouldn't recommend it out of anything other than the desire to manipulate such an incompetent king," he put it bluntly, without regard to anything but how then Golven's face turned red. Not out of rage at all, either. A shamed expression, though he tried to hide it, appeared. _Caught you, didn't I?_

Velsa Sarethi giggled, quietly. Anatwyne shot Lleran a look that he couldn't determine whether it was supportive or critical. More critical, though. Vonden was simply stunned, amazed at this blunt retort that somehow generated such a brilliant and climactic result. There was something about Lleran's voice and gaze, something definitive, final, unchallengeable, that ultimately made everyone except the people most convinced of what they were doing being the right thing for them to do, such as Anatwyne in most cases, and sometimes Vonden, agree that Lleran's suggestions were best. He was a Dunmer simply made of steel.

"Not to mention, if we do intend to do what we were thinking of – restoring equality to the Great Houses, restoring the power lost to King Helseth by the Indoril and Redoran, we should do that not by putting one of them on the throne. A House that is not powerful will not be able to rule Morrowind. While I'm sure a new Indoril king would significantly add to their revival, I'm also sure the more powerful houses – what am I saying, the most powerful house, namely Hlaalu, since Dres lies in ruins because of the occupation, would manipulate the king quite easily into not allowing him to do that. The Hlaalu, no offense to Vonden, is a sort of a positive menace. I respect them, but unless they agree to cut down a bit and allow every other house but the Telvanni who do not concern themselves with politics much to breathe a little, they're, along with the Telvanni and, naturally, House Dunmer, going to be the only remaining Great House on Morrowind."

Vonden seemed solemn at this statement, but did not openly disagree.

"So what do you propose, Lleran?" asked Anatwyne, with a rather warm voice too, apparently impressed by his arguments. "How would you restore equality?"

Lleran thought for a while and started speaking again:

"Firstly, the new king has to be either House Dunmer or either born from or in a mixed marriage between House Hlaalu and either Indoril or Redoran. House Dres is out of the question because it's like a vassal house to Hlaalu anyway. Preferably the latter variant, I'd think – a non-noble on the throne looks highly unorthodox. If that new king would be _in _the mixed marriage I mentioned and not a child of one, he would have to be the non-Hlaalu partner. Meaning, if it's a king, his queen-consort has to be the Hlaalu, and if it's a queen, her prince-consort has to be the Hlaalu. Second, we must use this opportunity to again allocate the lands to the Houses in as equal a fashion as possible. We must note that because Vvardenfell is now abandoned, it would be logical if some houses got some ancestral land less. I need a map of Morrowind with the territories of each House, territories under virtually direct Imperial rule, and territories under Temple rule as it was in the time before Helseth fought that unfortunate civil war of his with the Redoran and the Indoril. I also want another map with the territories as they were before the Armistice. I will then draw up a plan on how to reallocate this land, taking in as much the historic lands of the Houses into account as possible. I will then present this plan to this Council, and we will be able to discuss its boundaries further. Third – wait, this applies only if you agree. Are we agreed on the second point, at least?"

"It's a good idea," nodded Anatwyne. "I'd agree."

Velsa giggled, what she seemed fond of doing. "You should know, I'd think. I trust you on this."

"Agreed, and agreed with the idea about the king, too," Vonden nodded eagerly. "Seems we agree on something else, too."

Golven muttered under his nose, still ashamed, what Lleran interpreted as a yes.

"Good. Right, so, the third part of this plan is to, when the war is over, deploy our soldiers to make them help rebuild our cities and land, and distribute spoils of war to the people. Rebuild indiscriminately, but distribute the aforementioned spoils to Houses that are currently harder off. No one will be able to truly complain we're doing something wrong."

"And finally, we have to establish a new House," he let the words settle in everyone's minds so they'd seem shocking since he deliberately delayed mentioning details, "so to speak. We must name Mournhold (though not Almalexia as a whole, mind you) a city subject exclusively to the throne and to no actual house, and do what we can to make the royal line a thing wholly separate from House affairs. Or rather, make it _above _Great Houses. The dynasty, whatever dynasty shall it be, must be rendered in whatever fashion possible impossible to be influenced by any House. Firstly, we could make a law that renders all the relatives of the ruling king or queen up to the first-degree cousins of the ruler and his consort excluded from Great Houses by definition. That means ultimate exclusion. They don't have any rights or duties as members of a Great House, because they're no longer part of one. They're the royal family."

"Lleran, you're a genius at plotting," Velsa said, dreamily. "You're one cunning Dunmer. Rather… _thrilling, _too."

Anatwyne, who looked uncomfortable with Velsa's open flirting with Lleran, tried nodding meaninglessly to shake the awkwardness off her. "Everything you say sounds wonderful, and somewhat heretical, too… it looks as if you'd destroy every tradition we have if you'd think it necessary for Morrowind."

Lleran looked her straight in the eyes, and for a moment, they looked more sleepy than critical. "Exactly, Anatwyne. Exactly."

"But they're our traditions, Lleran," she leant back in her chair. "They're what we're known for throughout the world."

"Dunmer women are known to give themselves to men without them even asking," Lleran said with a nasty grin on his face. "If you're upholding _that_ tradition, I want to know why I haven't been offered a taste of those juicy melons of yours."

While Golven and Vonden initially intended to enter a dramatic silence as they assumed everyone was going to, only a second later they realized Anatwyne was bursting with laughter. Naturally, they joined in. Lleran wasn't laughing, but his grin went nowhere. But Velsa, she was glaring, in fact, _death _glaring at Anatwyne. The former street rat caught that with a corner of an eye and suddenly felt very sad. Why couldn't she have death glared him, instead?

"Oh, in the name of Almsivi," Anatwyne wiped a tear from her eyes, "would you believe it, Lleran Andalas, making a sex-related joke about me with me being there. You have enough wenches of your own you bang at every possible corner," her smile widened, "and with that wit, I think I know how you get them all."

Lleran quietly noted to his great pleasure that Velsa's glare finally properly transferred to him.


	4. Work, Work, And More Work

**Chapter 4 - Work, Work, And More Work**

**of the epic Elder Scrolls fanfiction by BlazeInfinity**

_**Never The End**_

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><p><em>Although there've not been any reviews so far, I've noticed the rather numerious views and thank you for them. Though I would like some reviews too, just to know what you think of the story, you know? Thanks anyway.<em>

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><p>Lleran was very disappointed when he was woken on a rather beautiful morning by a loud knocking at the door of his room. He carefully slid Samia's arm, which was wrapped around him, away, hoping not to wake her. She shifted, though didn't wake, slightly in her curvy naked form, covered only by the blankets scattered on the double bed, her face illuminated by the slowly rising morning sun. She was smiling. Lleran was too. They fell asleep with each other's tongue still in their companion's mouth, and the male Dunmer had still felt a sweet aftertaste on his lips in the morning as he got up, wrapping himself in a bathrobe and quietly stepping, careful not to wake Samia. Just before he opened the door, he put a finger to his mouth in preparation for whoever was to come in.<p>

It thus successfully silenced the unexpected visitor, namely Lleran's sister Nathala Andalas. She was, like he, darkhaired, slim and rather skinny, clad in a snow-white Indoril cloak with golden fastenings and a silver medallion round her neck. And a half-smile, half-frown on her face.

"Can we talk?" she quietly asked, impatiently and in such a manner that essentially it meant he had no other choice. She also threw a curious glance over his shoulder at the form in his bed, but soon enough she moved her gaze back to look at his eyes, sternly.

"Let me guess, big sister," Lleran threw his head to the side in a gesture indicating to follow him as he walked down a corridor, "You came to reprimand me for something."

"Actually, I did," Nathala replied, matter-of-factly, "and then to warn you, and ask for your advice. Which would you prefer me to do first?"

Lleran armed himself with a skeptical expression on his face. "You? Ask for anyone's advice? Mine, of all people? I must really be in for it. Start with the complaints, then."

"I've heard you spoke out against Omalen at the Grand Council."

Firstly, Lleran donned a glare. Then he crossed his arms.

"I've never expected you, of all people, to agree to the naming of a puppet as king of Resdayn."

"I don't. But you spoke out too loudly, too quickly and too _unselfishly_. That persuasive talent of yours might work well against poor Andas, who's been muttering in shame the whole day now, or against Anatwyne, who, though I don't think she realizes it yet, is thoroughly enamoured with you-"

Her brother's face deprived itself of the glare and he laughed.

"Anatwyne? Enamoured with me? She hates me," he added with only a slight touch of bitterness, "She simply puts up with me because I'm irreplaceable. Had she anyone more useful in the whole of Morrowind, she'd probably exile me-"

"Shut up," Nathala hissed, in a tone that said, quite vocally, _'and listen.' _"I recognize it better than either of you. So far I've yet to see one event in which when you smiled at her, she didn't. And you might think you smile because to you, everything you see is a joke. You'd be wrong, brother."

"Pshaw," spat Lleran. "Me and Anatwyne? Are you kidding? How much have you drunk last night? Better question yet, what are you on?"

Nathala laughed, to Lleran's great anger.

"You're mad! You have to be! Even insinuating such a possibility is-"

"Don't tell me you've never fantasized about _those juicy melons of hers_," she said the last five words in a tone that implied she was quoting something. Namely, him.

Lleran's face contorted in rage. "You-"

Well, she had a spy there, of course. Golven Andas, probably. Though Lleran knew shit why he'd decide to tell her such details. But, Lleran thought, coldly, he'd never think his sister capable of espionage on the Grand Council. It was treason.

Nathala noticed Lleran's dark gaze.

"Oh, don't worry, brother," she smiled, "I'm not as broken as to spy on a secret meeting of the Council. I overheard Velsa muttering under her nose angrily as she walked through Almalexia. A quick chat explained to me why she was so angry. But anyway, it doesn't matter; especially right now."

"You've been careless, Lleran," she continued, "if not for your genius plan on re-equalizing the houses, you'd have gained some enemies. Mostly not in House Indoril, actually, because an overall majority of us detests Omalen, but fact of life, the fool Llondryn's got a small number of supporters that wouldn't take kindly to you siding with Vonden. It wasn't your fault, really, but Vonden spoke too angrily and too resoundingly. You supporting him is essentially a declaration to Llondryn's supporters that you unreservedly agree with his tone of voice, angry tone of voice, and the wording which is bound to insult Omalen and his folk when rumors get out."

"I couldn't have kept quiet…"

"That's your problem. Sometimes you need to know how to shut up. Oh, but truly… doesn't matter. If anyone makes it a public problem, you can just accuse them of treason and illegal espionage and throw them in jail."

Lleran crossed his arms on his chest again. If it didn't matter, why'd she annoy him with this conversation in the first place?

"Who's she, by the way?" she curiously, and with something of a grin on her face, nodded back towards the door to his room.

"The barmaid from the Winged Guar."

"As a member of the Grand Council, you're acting overly too carelessly," she smiled, "because personally, I'd not upset Velsa much more. Firstly, it seems dangerous. Secondly, she already has the sad, sad fate of being in love with you, and it's truly a thought beyond me."

Lleran, unlike any normal person, smiled as they exited into a balcony from where they could see the whole of Godsreach, slowly waking up. The sun was rising from behind its walls in the east, and illuminating something of what a poet might've compared to a huge anthill, the capital of Morrowind in its morning glory. Thousands of people, rising together with the sun. Only in a big city can you see this.

"You mentioned you also had a warning for me."

"Indeed, though I have the ever-present nagging feeling that I'm warning you of something you already know. The Argonians have moved."

To Nathala's surprise, though she hid it perfectly, Lleran did not display any signs of worry. Just curiosity.

"In what direction?"

"They're moving the armies from the Imperial front in the south. Titus Mede seems incapable of dealing with any of the threats to his borders – they scorched the earth and went eastward. They're currently on their way to reorganize to, we guess, march north. _And _there's a more current problem. The forces that were exterminating the Dres rebellion in the south suddenly pulled back. They're marching north."

Lleran, completely shocking his sister, smiled. "The idiots."

She gaped at him.

"You don't think you're a bit overconfident in our ability?"

He leant back on the railing on the balcony, still smiling. "No, but I am in mine."

Nathala stared at her brother, understanding nothing whatsoever.

"I sent a fake message to the rebels around Tear," he explained, that grin on his face still predominant. "I intended the message to be found by Argonians first, and so it happened. They're obviously not the brightest – who'd send a horseman, an obvious sight for many miles around, as a messenger through the front lines? They got the message and were sure that it was genuine, and were also, due to some other reasons sure the rebels at Dres got another copy of it. So if you want an exact place on where the Argonians are marching, I can give it to you. Isramora. A town in what I'd personally term 'no-man's land', because neither Argonians nor our troops have retaken it yet. At Isramora, they'll be sure they're waiting for the rebels at Dres to come fleeing through it, since that's exactly what 'orders' they found in that message. At Isramora, they'll learn far too late that Tear, because virtually abandoned, has fallen to the revolt."

Nathala continued staring at him, in the manner that one stares at a genius scientist who is currently energetically proving his newest and most impressive hypothesis.

"Also at Isramora, they'll suddenly discover everything is going wrong for them. I've already consulted the Morag Tong and they claim that in Isramora, a neutral zone, the very epicenter of war, a few assassinations, particularly of highranking officers, would result in catastrophe and nothing short of a riot. Once chaos breaks out in Isramora, and once they hear of how Tear fell at their stupidity, they'll urge whatever command remains to return to the south. It won't work, sadly. As they stumble on their attempt to exit the neutral zone they by the end of the week will be calling a death zone, they'll suddenly discover hundreds of swords placed through their bellies – it'll be us, coming down from the north."

"Once their occupational army will be wrecked by this disaster, they'll find Narsis, and at the very best a very narrow ring of territory around it, their last and final stronghold in Morrowind. By now, Blacklight has fallen, I assure you. Augrim the Deathless was only two days away yesterday. The Argonian garrison probably has already committed suicide or been slaughtered by a revolt by the townspeople. Even if it hasn't, by the time we destroy the army at Isramora, Augrim will already be down south. Once Narsis remains alone, an island of occupation in a sea of a free Morrowind, the army from the south will become encumbered in an inevitable catastrophe – namely, we'll see Titus Mede march over the border of Black Marsh. If I know anything, he was just pretending he can't defend his borders properly in order to provoke them to draw away the army. The army in the south will be stuck. It won't be able to march north, because what kind of a nation is it that cannot defend its own heartland? It won't be able to march west either, for fear of us moving south after the capture of Narsis, which will be by that time inescapable. It'll be stuck in the cities and on their walls, without any possibility to go on the offensive without dividing its troops. And if Argonia divides its troops, it'll lose both campaigns because without the northern army they'll simply not have enough soldiers to battle both us and the Empire. They'll only have their garrisons in the south to depend upon, and trust me; they'll not _dare _move those for fear of losing their independence to the Empire."

At first, Nathala gaped at him, at this incredibly and unprecedently thought out plan. This was her little brother. Hell…

And then she realized something.

"What if they throw their whole southern might against the Empire, without the fear of us marching to the south? After all, it's a war of independence, it doesn't sound logical for them to fear it spreading beyond Morrowind. Or worse, what if the Empire does not join in?"

Lleran turned his eyes away for a second, before beginning to speak again.

"If they throw their southern army against the Empire, good for them and better for us. Unless you've forgotten, Thorn and some other territories in the north were once ours. They should be ours again. Don't you agree? If they go against the Empire disregarding us, they'll beat them and find our garrisons impossible to remove from at least a quarter of Black Marsh as it was before the invasion into Morrowind. They'll have no choice but to parlay. And if they parlay, we'll make it clear they've lost the war."

"If the Empire does not attack, it's slightly more complicated, but also more fun." Lleran grinned. "Black Marsh'll throw their whole military might at us. Doesn't matter, we have superiority in numbers anyday."

Nathala's gaze turned a mixture of anger, bewilderment and surprise, as if to say, _'Say __**what**__?' _and _'What the __**hell **__are you talking about?' _at the same time.

"Sweet sister," her brother chuckled at her expression, "we've got a thing worth a hundred thousand soldiers armed in daedric armor and trained in Akavir itself. Me and my mind."

* * *

><p>Lleran liked the manor's study. It was cozy, yet not overly pompous, enjoyable, but not too luxurious. An oaken desk, a fireplace, shelves filled with so many books the walls looked like a library, and an Akaviri katana strapped vertically onto the wall. He was writing by the desk when a messenger came in at midday.<p>

"Muthsera, I have the maps you've requested. And there is also a message for you; another messenger brought it to me as I was crossing your threshold."

Lleran nodded towards the desk, and the messenger placed three scrolls, two rather wide ones and one rather small, on it.

"That'll be all, thank you."

As the messenger left, he turned to the maps. However, he found it increasingly difficult to work. What Nathala had said to him about Anatwyne resonated almost cruelly in his mind. He was angry – how'd she _dare _imply she knew him better than himself? Who was she to claim so? Even if there was the slightest possibility he felt anything other than annoyance with Anatwyne most of the time, she was married. Well, her husband was currently stuck on Solstheim, so if he wanted to, he could seize the opportunity and- the point was, he didn't want to. He thought so anyway. What was he saying, even? His thoughts were confused, distorted, especially by the anger he felt at Nathala right now.

To clear his mind, he put the maps aside, considering that he had more than enough time to compose a suitable plan for Great House territories, and took the scroll with the message. It was scribbled quickly, and… incomprehensibly:

"_Uoy nopu hctaw alahpem. Ecnartne terces. Yas stcatnoc, reat ekat nac serd. Aromarsi ta gnihtyreve pu tes. _

_Narell elbaronoh."_

For a few seconds, Lleran just sat there, staring at the piece of paper. For a minute afterwards, he strained his head, wondering what the hell this could mean. Then he tried reading it out loud, but he couldn't even pronounce the words. And then he suddenly slapped his hand across his face, laughing like mad. He quickly, letter after letter, rewrote the message backwards.

It said,

_"Honorable Lleran,_

_Set up everything in Isramora. Dres can take Tear, contacts say. Secret entrance. Mephala watch upon you."_

_This definitely came from the Morag Tong, _Lleran thought and then knocked on his head at the idiotic obviousness of the mental statement. Good. He hoped the Dres would time their assault well – an early capture of Dres would bring the army marching towards Isramora back south. They needed havoc in the south, disastrous havoc, the likes of which had never been seen before.

They needed a force to bring the ultimate death to the army at Isramora, too. So, with haste, he wrote up a request for the recruitment of another thousand sellswords. They'd already paid their debts to the ones currently serving among them back – Lleran saw to it that Vonden, provisionally in charge of finances and economy, would keep the treasury updated by melting everything they found in the royal palace that was brought there by the Argonian governor, raiding ancestral tombs and ancient fortresses (most of which Lleran saw fortified again for the sake of arousing even more patriotism as a part of what he called 'restoring Resdayn' and the necessity to defend the frontline), what many saw brutal and sacrilegious but much more people saw a necessary evil, and finally seeing to clearing manors after arresting Argonian and Black Marsh-loyal nobles settled in them. Plus, the Argonians had done unwisely by keeping slightly more than half their whole treasury in the city of light and magic. Once the city of light and magic had seen freedom, so did more than half their treasury.

The very existence of Black Marsh-loyal nobles had ticked him off. While most surviving such nobility he had executed, their families posed a difficult problem. Anatwyne was for keeping them all locked up in some building nobody cared to remember and regularly bringing them food. Vonden was up for exiling them, and not to Argonia, but to the Empire, or to Akavir – somewhere from where they could not assist Black Marsh in any way. Velsa was, at those precise moments when this discussion was occurring in the Grand Council, away for some reason. Golven couldn't think of any original ideas, so he supported Vonden, though seemingly reluctantly. The Council bickered over this to no end, and eventually they decided to give the problem to be solved by Lleran, who wanted nothing more than not to solve such a particularly difficult dilemma.

Ultimately, he'd decided that he'd offer them a choice. For now, they'd be arrested, kept in Verelnim Manor, a manor that had stood empty for three hundred years already at that, and their needs would be taken care of. After the war, they'd have a choice to make. Either Resdaynian or Argonian citizenship. Unreservedly. They'd have the full rights of any citizen had they chosen to remain in Morrowind, and if they chose otherwise, they could ask for an escort to Argonia.

Lleran thought over actually delivering the request. A few minutes later, he decided to instead dump the scroll into a wastebin - unnecessary wasting of money was unnecessary, to be frank. Chazmag, and his half-mercenary, half-rebel army in the east would be the one to strike the Argonians down at Isramora. As far as reports claimed, militias were forming everywhere, establishing garrisons - soon, the original rebels would've become so unnecessary in matters of defense that they could go on the offensive altogether.

Lost in his contemplations, Lleran only now remembered he still had the maps to tend to. He took a glance at what land the Great Houses held before the Armistice, and what land they held during Helseth's rule. And then, with his immense imagination, he redrew the map completely, also factoring in the fact that the Temple is a virtually redundant mechanism now that the priests will have to rebuild with only state sponsorship at best and not possession of actual land, and the fact that Vvardenfell is now a desolate wasteland and it'll be years before it can be re-colonized again. Work, work, and more work…


	5. An Unfortunate Turn Of Events

**Chapter 5 - An Unfortunate Turn Of Events**

**of the epic Elder Scrolls fanfiction by BlazeInfinity**

_**Never The End**_

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><p><em>After some relative hiatus, here's chapter five. Thanks be to my one reviewer, and to all of my viewers!<em>

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><p>"Serjo! Serjo Andalas!"<p>

Lleran woke from his semi-slumber on his desk and raised his eyebrow at the Dunmer, all in plate armor, standing by his door. The man's expression was obscured, naturally, by the helmet, but from the tone of voice Lleran judged it was probably an excited one.

"We've won, serjo! Blacklight has fallen… and there's word from Solstheim. The fleet's sailing, serjo! Sailing!"

The councilor leant back, a smile on his face that said in all of its being: _"I told you so."_

"Thank you," he nodded curtly, and once the soldier left, he jumped out of his chair and swung open his window.

The morning wind blew in his face as he stared at Mournhold reliving its liberation once again. Drunkards wandering the streets singing songs of victory, some young fools waving a black banner with a bronze moon and star on it, running through the streets in the process, and generally people doing what Lleran assumed to be celebration.

This was a bad sign.

On every, even the slightest victory, the Dunmer wanted to celebrate now. The further they went, the more victories they'd won, the more they were sure of their freedom, the more overestimate of themselves they became.

On the other hand, the success in Solstheim was just downright _excellent_. _I knew it'd work. _Now, with reinforcements coming down from Solstheim and Necrom, the Argonian forces marching towards Isramora would be of no concern.

Augrim had orders to leave a garrison at Blacklight, composed of most non-mercenaries with him, and cleanse the area of Argonians. Afterwards, he was to march southward and link up with the rest of the rebels at Mournhold.

Meanwhile, word had reached him that the Argonians had crossed the border from Dres to Hlaalu lands, into Narsis District, therefore they'd be at Isramora in two or three days. Similarly the Dres revolt would capture Tear, alerted by the Morag Tong to do so, within another three days.

To confuse the Argonians, Lleran had ordered the Dres to go into hiding, to assure them that they were indeed fleeing north towards Isramora. By now, they had probably prepared a new uprising in the very heart of Tear, Lleran hoped – the lack of a garrison should've convinced most rebel sympathizers, which must've been many due to the simple reason of it being a time of uprising, to set alight this batch of firewood called a revolt.

Lleran, however, was uncertain about the letter from the Morag Tong. It was not molested in any way, not even touched by anyone other than the messenger. He knew, because he examined its packaging carefully. But the highly undercoded message seemed quaint. If he knew anything, the Morag Tong would not rest until they'd have translated the message into at the very least Akaviri, if not something even less comprehensible, then anagramized it – and probably more difficultly than here.

He scratched his chin. This wasn't going to be as easy. He knew it always, but now… he knew it more.

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><p>"Wait, you can't be-"<p>

"Serious, Anatwyne," Lleran nodded. "We have a lich in the Morag Tong. We have to send the army down south as soon as it lands. Azura knows the Argonians aren't marching for Isramora. They're marching for Mournhold."

"What about the assault on Tear?"

"Screw the assault!" his fist pounded down on the table beside which the Grand Council had gathered again. "Mournhold's more important! Call off the damned assault. Organize a goddamn defense!"

"You're not the leader here, Lleran," she hissed, angrily.

"I know I'm not! It doesn't matter! Almalexia City must be defended at all costs! Without it, the revolt fails!"

Anatwyne lowered her eyes. Lleran saw she knew he was right.

"Anatwyne," he said, gently, supported by the calmly encouraging gazes of Golven, Velsa and Vonden, "Organize the troops. We have to have a force at Mournhold as fast as possible."

She looked up, into his eyes, as if searching for something.

"… Okay."

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><p>Two weeks later, riding on his horse back and forth in front of the swirling mass of men – or rather, Dunmer – that people usually call an army, Lleran felt rather nervous. Tarvyn, who sat on his mount just beside Lleran, didn't show <em>his <em>nervousness with anything but his eyes, because they were cold, dark and grim, and, most notably, discontent. Anatwyne, who without realizing it edged closer to Lleran as if hoping to cover some milimetres of herself from the dustclouds gathering in the valley before them, edging closer to them, and to Almalexia's walls behind them, coming over from the south in a rapidly increasing speed. Golven was off designing and analyzing plans of the battlefield while Velsa and Vonden were organizing the troops.

Nathala rode up, more specifically, to stand beside Tarvyn.

"Everything alright, love?" she asked him. Tarvyn blinked and opened his mouth, without knowing whether he was more surprised by the question itself or just its last word, but then he was interrupted by Lleran.

"Look. They're standing by."

"Good defensive position they've got, spearmen in front," someone Lleran couldn't identify without turning around commented. And Lleran didn't turn around.

"Well, they're probably expecting us to have a cavalry charge down the hill," Tarvyn said, calmly, in an evaluating tone. "But if we remain in position, it's worthless. Their spearmen would all die climbing the hill from our arrows, and _their _arrows wouldn't reach up here. Their cavalry would turn tired and weak ascending the hill. They're probably going to try and provoke us in some way."

Lleran finally got a clear view of the battlefield as the dustclouds shifted away and were replaced by soldiers. The Argonians positioned themselves on a field below the hill on which stood the army of Morrowind, just before the gates of Almalexia City. As the anonymous person noted: spearmen in front, archers just behind them.

"Well, that rules out the cavalry charge," Lleran said, "for the most part. And speaking of cavalry, there's an emissary."

He pointed to two horsemen approaching the hill, both carrying a small olive branch, a universal symbol of diplomacy.

"Shall we dispose of these Argonian dogs?" some crossbowman asked. Anatwyne frowned.

"Firstly, they're lizards, not dogs. Secondly, no. We're not savages. Let them come."

And thus up the hill went an Argonian in leather envoy clothing, and another armed to the teeth, probably a guard. None of them bowed, as custom demanded it, but the one in light attire spoke:

"Shidiiya, I am called. I come to offer you to surrender and spare yourselves your lives."

"Surrender what, Argonian?" Anatwyne spat. "We have nothing to surrender."

An angry fire flared in her eyes. Lleran knew it was time to help her articulate her thoughts.

"Surrender?" he added. "Surrender our freedom? Our independence? Our Mournhold, surrender our Mournhold, the great city of light and magic? We have no such right, Argonian. We have no right to betray Resdayn, for it loves us more than nothing but dirt and soil actually can – because it's not! Resdayn is our country, and we shall not let it die! Morrowind shall never be under another's heel, ever again!"

Shidiiya watched. Anatwyne scowled.

"Bring these terms to your commander," Anatwyne continued. "The Kingdom of Resdayn rejects his offer of surrender. It offers to not only him, but to all of Argonia this: it gets its worthless arse off Resdaynian land. Beyond Tear, and the borders of Morrowind as they were before its unlawful occupation by the Argonian authorities. If it won't do as told, we'll kick that aforementioned arse so hard it's going to fly so far south that by the end of the war the border will be a straight line from east to west, crossing Lilmoth. And once the last members of a foreign army are wiped off the soil of Morrowind, we want to see reparations, and support in removing all the ruin Black Marsh has caused to Resdayn."

Lleran knew Anatwyne only said this to frighten and/or anger the emissary, and through him, the whole of the Argonian army. It worked. Lleran saw how the envoy gritted his teeth.

"There shall be blood this day," the messenger swore and had his guard drop a longsword on the ground. Another universal symbol, in its meaning echoing what he had just said.

"That it shall," Anatwyne said, coldly.

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><p>"The Argonian army is well-rounded," Golven explained to the gathering of the leaders of Morrowind. There was the whole Grand Council, and Nathala, and Tarvyn, and Chazmag, the leader of the forces that came over from Necrom, and the leading nobles of the Grand Houses. Lleran made sure Llondryn Omalen was replaced with a conservative, but not thoroughly offending Indoril noble, Avon Telvayn. And, naturally, his sister, too. "It's got equipment that I'd classify as, 'medium quality', is well trained and prepared for the battle. We are not sure on their morale, but I have some rather unclear in its nature info that claims their army is slightly demoralized from the previous losses. If we manage some heavy damage to their army, or destroy their formations, or at the very least make an advance thoroughly impossible, they might retreat relatively soon."<p>

"Our army is slightly more complex in this regard. Approximately a fifth consists of mercenaries. We hire trustworthy leaders, but they're still sellswords – they may be true to their word, but if their life is in danger, they will not be willing to die. However, in a sense of armor and training, they are quite possibly our elite. Then we have the forces from Solstheim. Fifteen thousand warriors that have been training for quite a long time for this, from a century to at least five years. Their morale is high – they're willing to die for their country, as long as they'll die in it. However, equipment is average. Some of them are holding an actual sword in their hands for the first time, having used wooden ones up until now, and some of them aren't holding swords in their hands at all just because the armories don't have enough. By the time they have arrived, however, the disorganized rioters that took Mournhold and the other cities in the very beginning of the revolt, were able to have armed themselves to the teeth. I will hand this over to Tarvyn and Chazmag now, for they oversee the training of these new recruits."

The short-haired Dunmer, and a charcoal-haired Orc with a punkish crest for a hairstyle, replaced Golven as the center of attention in the center of the tent they all were in.

"My troops aren't quite in the very top of the physical shape they could be in," Tarvyn spoke, quietly, meaninglessly nodding as he liked to in the process, "but they're not tragic, either. They're all full of good ideas, good beliefs, good morale as our friend Golven would put it, and they're eager and ready to prove themselves as they had in Mournhold on the very first day of the uprising. They're equipped well, and know which end of the sword to lift. I wouldn't count on them winning this fight alone, but I would count on them to put up a fight."

"Same here," Chazmag said, contemplating something, judging by his expression. "Necrom's 1st and 2nd Regiments are just about as ready as Tarvyn's seem to be, although I'd keep the 3rd in reserve. With a good strategy, we can do this."

"We, however, have a slightly different problem. Grand Councilor Lleran can tell you about it, friends."

Lleran, trying to force out the thought that this reminded him of some sort of show, replaced Chazmag and Tarvyn in the geometrical center of the tent.

"We lack veterans," he said, outright, not covering behind propaganda. "We have nobles from the Great Houses, most of whom spent their lives in hiding due to suppression by the Argonians – merely a handful. We have a few soldiers, such as our friend Tarvyn here, who fought under the Imperials, in Solstheim, or a few even back in the day Morrowind was under the Empire (old people, these are, mind you). A bunch of deserters who were drafted previously into the Argonian army, and a great many that had made a living as sellswords previously. Overall these account for about two thousand in the whole Mournhold District. I don't know how many outside of it. These veterans will be cut down in number, possibly halved, even if we win – thus leaving an even smaller handful to train new troops. Hopefully, however, by the end of this day, our soldiers will know enough about battle to consider _themselves _veterans. But, that does not matter much now, on the field of battle. The veterans have been justly appointed the leading commanders; and those leading commanders will lead us to victory."

These words were greeted with a small applause, for which's end Lleran quietly waited. Anatwyne stepped beside Lleran and supportively took his hand. For a while, Lleran tried to remember if her husband was still at Blacklight, or wherever he was. He felt somewhat likably awkward holding her hand, and had to muster all of his strength not to blush. Lleran felt like a teenager, like in a manifestation of a teenagehood he never had due to a hard life on the street in an occupied country.

"Serjoi," Anatwyne spoke. "It is time to discuss the plan. We are to keep our soldiers on Tarmolag Hill until explicitly ordered otherwise. We must not give any quarter to any provocations they will try on us – on Tarmolag Hill, we control the way into Almalexia, and they control nothing, for they cannot get through our defenses without heavy losses. We must not give in, must not let our troops chase any failed attacks down – they will try to lure us down into the plains, where they'll overwhelm us with sheer strength of numbers. Is that clear?"

She looked at everyone carefully as they nodded.

"Then go, with Azura's blessing. I shall join you shortly."

Lleran waited until everyone was gone. She leant over a handdrawn plan of the battlefield. And then he took her hand.

"Lleran, what're you-"

"Wait," he said, more sternly than he'd have liked. And she waited, as he held her hand. Quietly. He looked her in the eyes. Calm, kind eyes. Showing a kindness she herself showed rarely.

Damn, it felt great.

"Thanks," he said a few seconds later, gently releasing her hand. And staggering backwards, as if drunk, with a dumbfounded expression on his face that reflected the one in Anatwyne's.

He turned, and again staggered, this time properly out of the tent. It was time to fight, he realized, and probably to die.


	6. Azura Loves Us All

**People, I am honestly sorry for there being no new chapter for so goddamn long. I've been writerblocked – but then suddenly, Skyrim comes out. And I play Morrowind again out of a sudden surge of nostalgia, and then I realize how goddamn epic the country was. And again I experience a surge of pseudopatriotism for Morrowind, more than anything, fueled by the Stormcloak campaign in Skyrim and even more by how damn awesome Morrowind was. Azura bless you all.**

**Also, in case anyone's offended by this chapter being slightly shorter than usual, I'm honestly sorry. I have no excuse besides being out of practice.**

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><p>The Dunmer did not tolerate horses in battle. Heck, it was rare that Dunmer tolerated mounts at all. They used them only in the most desperate need to get out of somewhere, or get to somewhere. So most of the regiment that Lleran found himself in command of spent most of their time before the battle frowning at the rather disappointingly <em>mounted<em>, mostly Nord, mercenaries that their army boasted, standing by on the right flank.

"Trust them, Lleran. They're good men," said Tarvyn, while dismounting his horse.

"I trust them, and I'll trust you on that since, after all, you've almost literally whipped them into submission," the other Dunmer smiled. His best friend smiled back and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't get killed, bro."

"You don't either, you bastard."

Tarvyn laughed. Lleran laughed too. It was ridiculously retarded, how they were probably about to die, and here they were. Laughing. What was wrong with them? Lleran considered this, as Tarvyn walked away to take command of all the regiments of Mournhold altogether.

Lleran knew, for all of his life, the risks he was taking. He risked his life, he risked whatever little he always had, he risked his family and his reputation. All for his country. He would've died for it – for a country that no one had lived long enough in to see it free. For a country that wasted six centuries of its existence in subjugation. Most importantly – it was _his _country. To it, and to no other lord, he owed fealty. Morrowind, Morrowind the great, Morrowind the holy – Morrowind, that he would die to have seen free.

He didn't care now, as he stood, clad in heavy armor of Indoril produce, beholding the sight before him. The flat plain, the camps of the two opposing armies and behind him, the walls of Almalexia City, and a host of _souls_. He looked upon these mer who were assigned to them – into their eyes. Their eyes burned with the will to fight. The will to die for what they believe in. And even more importantly - to _live_. To live for their country. And now he was their leader. He hated being a leader. They looked to him, uncertain of what to expect; Lleran was damn certain he had to say something now. Reassure them that what they were doing was right.

Well, talking was his specialty after all. He tore off his helmet and ascended a barrel placed rather strategically in the middle of his regiment.

"Soldiers of Mournhold!" his voice echoed, clashing against their shields, resounding in the quiet metal ringing of their armor and weapons and reflecting in their eyes. "Today, we face against the truest enemy we have had yet. Never before have we faced an army of such proportions. The threats to our freedom are many. Some would say, endless. But I swear here on my sword," here, he, for added effect, drew his sword, "I swear, soldiers of Mournhold! I swear that I will fight until the last Argonian soldier is driven from our glorious land! I swear on the name of Azura, on that of Nerevar, and of all our ancestors and lords! I swear to die willingly if need be! I swear to give no quarter! Let the earth shatter and the storms break the heavens," he paused to maximize the dramatic effect of the speech, "but the children of Veloth deserve better than _this_!" he literally screamed the last few words, pointing with a sword towards the enemy host, "For this is _our_ land. Our land! Forever! Ours! Nobody else has any right whatsoever to it, and nobody shall ever taint it again with their slimy lizard fingers! Children of Resdayn, this is your last test. Shall you fight, prove yourselves grown mer to the gods? Or shall you die a coward's death, running from the field on which the very fate of our nation will be decided? Azura is watching! She is always watching! For she loves us, loves us greatly! Their deaf trees can love no one! _Perish Argonia!_"

Lleran thought, for a couple of seconds, he'd turn deaf. Then, at some point in the next fifteen, he realized just why as the screams and howls of the Dunmer quieted down.

And some time during the next fifteen seconds he noticed the dustclouds rising again in the distance.

The 2nd Battle of Mournhold had begun.

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><p>Lleran knew he'd hate open battle. He loved duels, personal combat, where you only had to keep an eye on your enemy and you'd either win or lose concentration. Open battle, yeah, it didn't work like that. The driving force of open battle was overwhelming your enemy with the biggest amount of men possible.<p>

You could not _enjoy _open battle until the very, very end, because you were never sure if you won for one, and for another thing, there was always this annoying feeling that you're being pushed by thousands of men and mer, and there was never any way to evade the blows of an enemy without dooming your shieldbrother to death.

And the howls. _Oh_, slammed from both sides by soldiers, sighed Lleran – _the howls. _Everybody in battle seemed to want to scream all the time. Rage, yeah, he understood it was a powerful thing, but still, it was retarded how everybody seemed to want to express it at the same time. It was deafening. Literally.

"Cuuuuuut them down…" an exhausted attempt to shriek emerged from Lleran's mouth as a fireball produced by who knows what retard missed scorching him alive by a milimetre. "Kill them all."

Their regiment had seemingly simple orders. Painfully simple. Stand your ground on the very vanguard of the army on Tarmolag. Don't let a single Argonian pass alive. Meanwhile, the rest of the army was to make sure that in the case that some of them would not try to pass at all, they would be either routed or die anyway.

The Dunmer felt something, something that seemed to gradually grow colder, slam into his left shoulder and slip down to the ground. He knew by now that the wisest thing to do was to lunge with a sword in that direction.

It was indeed wise. His sword slashed sharply across the throat of an Argonian soldier, who fell dead – what irony, dying just after taking a kill. The opening in the ranks was quickly filled up with reinforcing Dunmer. The Argonians retreated slightly, in order to regroup – Lleran admired their ability to do so without falling all over one another in the process. But, still, there, they made a mistake.

The monotonous sounds of battle – steel on steel, roar on scream – were interrupted by a barrage of arrows descending from higher on the hill. From the height of Tarmolag came they, hundreds of them, or so it seemed, burning and going straight through the lines of the Argonians. And then came the Nordic mercenaries with their cavalry, slamming into the left flank of the Black Marshers. Lleran knew this was the time to howl. Yet, it was so difficult…

"… KILL THEM! KILL THEM ALL!" he managed, at last, with great personal struggle.

"_Resdaaaaaaaaaaaaayn!_" the Dunmer replied. _Great crowd tonight_, Lleran thought. Tried to smile to himself. Didn't work. Or rather, he felt a painfully red liquid shift its position on his face. Trying to escape its inevitable plummet down his mouth and throat, he spat, spitting some of it out. And then, joined his mer in a charge forward, howling the name of their homeland and all of its saints and gods from Azura all the way down to St. Delyn.

As the sellswords swept past, opening the way for the Dunmer, Mournhold's Marauders, as Lleran had mentally termed them, charged forward, trying to edge 'round the Argonian regiment's right flank and thus surround them, the Dunmer on two sides and the Nords on another one.

_Fight! Fight, for Morrowind! Fight for the land of our forefathers!_

The plan seemed to be working. The Argonians were too slow to regroup. Lleran saw, however, that soon he'd be on the front line again. Well, it was about damn time. It was getting boring.

That's what he thought, at least, until a spear missed his heart by an inch, deflected off his breastplate and instead ending up rather unfortunately in his left shoulder. The Dunmer councilor growled and pushed forward, disarming the Argonian that stabbed him with sheer power of _force_. Lleran didn't even feel his sword stab forward, through the foe's very heart. It went there due to pure unharnessed strength.

They both fell back. The Argonian, because, well, he died. Lleran, meanwhile, simply staggered back in pain. His new wound erupted in a shower of blood. Didn't stop him from beheading another two Argonians who noted his wound and attempted to finish him off, though.

_Damn, where's Anatwyne? _he heard himself think. _Where's Nathala, and Tarvyn? Velsa, Vonden, Golven? I'd feel a lot more comfortable if I knew how things were going for them right nooooow… Ouuuuuch, thaaaaat hurts…_

He didn't hear himself think much more for a while yet.


	7. Don't Trust Anybody, Ever

**Hey people. I'll let you get straight to the chapter soon enough now; all I have to do is reply to my first ever anonymous review. Damn, it's such a new thing to me.**

**So anyway, "Oscar", or more precisely, the dude who complained about my story's description.**

**All I have to say to you is, "Soooooo…. Your point?" Or, more exactly, what are you trying to put through? Where, honestly, did I say that quote was true? Do I have to spell it in a legal disclaimer for you? I can do that, if you'd like. "BlazeInfinity is not to be held accountable for anything his characters say." In other words, if you want to teach someone of Tamrielic history, go teach Lleran (presumably) – oh wait, he's a fictional character. So sad. My friend, I understand how painfully imposing may be the desire to share your knowledge of the lore of a universe you are a fan of. In fact, pretty much, I feel that desire a great many times. But satisfying that want does not necessarily have to include complaining about every single detail. There's more productive ways of doing it. Or, more exactly, not pissing everyone off with it.**

**Anyway, guys, now that I'm done with replying to my anonymous reviewers, here's a new chapter.**

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><p>"You bastard," was the first thing Lleran heard that day. In a voice suspiciously reminiscent of Tarvyn.<p>

He attempted to get up. It didn't really work. That painful attempt of his to get up was, in effect, very much fueled by his left elbow, which he used as support in the process of getting up, therefore, any strain that his left elbow suffered was also felt in his left shoulder. Alongside great pain.

Tarvyn and Nathala were standing there, in front of him, who apparently was lying in a bed, probably somewhere in the Royal Palace. Tarvyn was grinning, Nathala smiling, and both of them happy.

To his own happiness, Lleran noted, smiling to himself, that they held each other's hands. And when his eyesight became clearer, recent unconsciousness and all, he realized it was more than that – Tarvyn, clad in dark leather clothing, literally held his arms wrapped around Nathala, who wore a bright lime dress.

"You bastard," he said again, smiling. Lleran redirected his smile all the way back. "We won, you bastard. Your regiment held the hill damn long. Long enough for us to flank the Argonians on both sides. Actually, you only were conscious for the minority of the time your mer held their position. They didn't crack when you went unconscious – sent some soldiers to bring you back to the city, and got you here – we had set up a field hospital in the palace.

Lleran nodded. It didn't take him a long time to realize that was a mistake – pain struck as suddenly and as quickly as a Morag Tong assassin.

"In other news, Lleran," Nathala grinned in such a disastrously Andalas manner that Lleran scowled at who he first perceived to be his own self's second incarnation, namely her, "Anatwyne went near-insane when she heard you were injured. We only managed to get her away from you after two days, when the healers told us you were going to live. Prior to that, she spent every waking second sitting here. Told me to, quote, "go tell those n'wahs to fuck off" – referring, of course, to Golven and Vonden, who'd been telling her to leave you alone and go, quote, "I don't know, rule in the absence of a monarch or something", and I did that to the letter. Hell, she put me in charge of the Grand Council in her absence, too, which feels great, Lleran – few things can compare to the feeling that you get when you put a bunch of bickering fools back in their places. Anatwyne, meanwhile, kept everyone except the healers and the two of us here away from you with a greatsword twice her height and thrice her weight. You should've seen what she did to Velsa. Her face isn't as pretty as it was before, I can assure you."

Lleran smiled, weakly. Wanted to smile stronger, though. Why was he so happy? Hearing all the things Anatwyne did, hearing how she cared for him, would've once cracked a smile, a grin, and a light one. Now it seemed so serious, so _worthwhile_, and perhaps most importantly, so _right_.

"Stay here and don't move, you goddamn bastard," growled Tarvyn, albeit not unkindly, "The healers say you won't be able to move much for another two days. Deep internal injuries, blah blah blah, who cares. You've got some personal daedra looking over you, I do think, otherwise you wouldn't have survived. You were stabbed with a spear in the shoulder, a sword narrowly missed three of your vital arteries, and you almost bled everything you had inside on the way from the battlefield. Anyway, yeah, stay here. We'll get Anatwyne. She'll want to see you, now that you're awake."

In accordance with an ancient cliché, Anatwyne had to burst in an hour later, alerted by the pair of the fact that Lleran was awake, and confess how worried and depressed she was, and the true extent of her feelings for him, and then afterwards they'd make love in that same field-hospital-ish wing of the Royal Palace.

Well, she wouldn't have been Anatwyne if she followed clichés. She stormed in clad in her usual armor, less than fifteen minutes after Tarvyn and Nathala left, with the angriest expression on her face. Lleran knew, even more so than every other time she was angry, that he was going to get it now.

"You retard!" she screamed, at the same time painfully backhanding him across the cheek, "You retard! How _dare _you come so damn close to dying? Do you know how worried I was? After I learnt you were going to live, all I wanted to do was to slap you like that for frightening me so much!"

She slapped his other cheek. Lleran did not express his pain in any way. He merely scowled.

"I hold that goddamn hill for you, and this is how you repay me? Enough of this shit. How goes the war?"

This time, Lleran's hand went up and caught hers as she was about to backhand him, this time, apparently across the entirety of his face. She tried to wriggle it loose of his grip, but he held it tight. So, she decided, she was going to act natural, as if she managed slapping him:

"You nearly died and you ask me, 'How goes the war?'... Damn the war! Dammit, you hear me, Lleran? I… of all the things I don't want… I don't want you to die the most!"

The male Dunmer smiled, a sheepish grin cutting across his face so reminiscently of a scar.

"I don't want you to die either. Or to slap me. So please, don't slap me now."

He released her hand, it limply descending downwards due to pure force of… lack of force. Anatwyne's anger slowly faded from her face.

And then she slapped him once more across the face.

"I promised nothing," she smiled. It took Lleran a few seconds to realize her hand stayed on his cheek, gently touching it, caressing it. Notably, it made the pain go away.

"Better?" she asked, and without waiting for an answer, leant in over his bed and kissed him on the forehead.

She drew away slightly. Or rather, was doing so - and then Lleran stopped her. His fingers, gently, wrapped around her neck. Firmly convinced that what he was doing was right, he drew her closer to himself and kissed her on the lips.

She kissed him back, not a long while afterwards refusing to continue to stand and instead descending onto him. He expected to be in pain – after all, she was a person, she wasn't as light as a feather, and he was injured – but he felt nothing but great _joy_.

Lleran knew, finally – Nathala was right. She was always right. And she was right about him, and Anatwyne, too. She knew them better than they knew themselves.

Anatwyne withdrew backwards, breaking their kiss, and adjusted herself to literally and completely be on top of him. And looked him in the eyes.

"I want you," she said, or rather, whispered. Expressed her deepest desire at the time, no less. Lleran thought he might've burned alive from the sheer emotion that was in those three words. Which was ridiculous, he thought, knowing that he heard women say that quite often in his lifetime.

Although now again locked in another passionate kiss, Lleran found the time and space to begin reach towards her back and gently loosen the bands that held her breastplate in place, reaching with another hand at the same time towards her beautiful red hair, drawing her nearer. She let out a quiet moan.

And then suddenly drew away. Lleran looked at her with a quizzical expression – she looked away as she sat down on the far edge of his bed. Her face was obscured by her now disheveled and chaotic hair, but he could swear he saw a tear on her cheek. Ignoring the pain, he reached forward. He wanted to hold her, and to wipe that insolent little tear away. To make her happy again… it was all he wanted.

She pushed him aside, gently. Apologetically. And still avoided his gaze.

"I'm sorry," she said, after a while of sitting like that, in a dark and awkward silence.

"You shouldn't be. I shouldn't have done that. Forgive me."

"It's… it's not your fault, Lleran. It's just that… I'm married. And… and the war… and everything…"

"I understand. Let's just forget this."

"I know you do. Let's."

* * *

><p>Lleran, two days later, felt, contrary to popular belief, a lot better. When anyone asked him whether he was feeling alright, he would get the following piece of dialogue:<p>

"Yeah," he'd answer in all honesty.

"You don't look the part, though," he'd get as a reply.

"Trust me, I am."

"You look sad, though. It's not usual for you."

"I'm fine, really."

So, when a knocking on the door woke him the first day he spent back at his manor again, he could get up without much pain in the back.

It was one of the manor servants. "Serjo," he, a young darkhaired Dunmer, said, "There's an Altmer here who wants to see you. Told to tell you he was sent by "a kinsman of yours from overseas". I'm sorry, he wasn't too clear-"

"Okay, I got it. Lead him to the Situation Room."

By now, the servants in the manor knew enough about Lleran to know that the Situation Room, as he called it, was a small room with not much besides two chairs and some bookcases in it, where he held meetings that he did not want spied on.

Lleran dressed quickly. There was only one possibility on who this mysterious Altmer could've been. Or rather, sent by. He put on his cleanest shirt and pants, proceeding to enfold himself in an expensive royal blue robe soon afterwards.

The Altmer waiting for him in the Situation Room was clad in traditional light Aldmeri armor, and, when Lleran entered, was browsing the bookshelves in the room. However, immediately upon hearing Lleran's footsteps, he turned and bowed respectfully.

"Grand Councilor Lleran Andalas, I presume?" he asked in perfect Dunmeris.

Lleran sighed. "Yes, unfortunately. I don't seem to have the advantage of knowing your name, however."

The Altmer removed his helmet and bowed again slightly. He had very light hair, and rather dark skin for a High Elf. "I apologize. Arendur of Lerunfal, more popularly known as Shimmerene. A loyal servant of his Majesty Sorcalin II, High King of the Aldmeri Dominion."

"There," Lleran's finger flicked towards the Altmer, "that last sentence. That I already knew. I am also a loyal servant of my king, wherever and whoever he might be. Provided it's a he. The correct pronoun doesn't really matter right now. Shall we sit down?"

"I will not refuse."

It was a couple of long minutes. Time seemed to freeze. Lleran scratched his chin slowly, analyzing Arendur coldly and calculatingly from his chair at one end of the room. Arendur did not shift, did not demonstrate any lack of comfort, if there was any.

"Would you like some wine, Arendur of Shimmerene?"

"I will not refuse that either."

The Dunmer clapped loudly twice. It took the servants only a couple of minutes to react, and one of them barged in with a quizzical expression on his face.

"Some wine for my friend here… and some mazte for me."

Once the requested drinks had been brought forth, Lleran raised his tankard. "Azura bless you."

Arendur did not shift as much as an eyebrow. "And Auriel you. Do you not think it interesting how we offer blessings to another who much rather would not have them from a foreign god?"

Lleran smiled. Or half-smiled, at least. "There, a mer like you is someone who I hoped Sorcalin would send. Azura bless me, then."

Arendur returned his smile. And then, quietly, laughed. "May I call you Lleran, sir Andalas?"

Lleran suddenly, unexpectedly scowled. "Not yet, because I don't want you to start talking until I'm done. Right. Allow me to sum up what I think of you Thalmor, and then we'll talk. Your talk of Elven supremacy makes me, and a lot of Morrowind I do think, want to spit on you all. The Dunmer have lived centuries without having any relation to other Aldmeri. There's a reason why we hate when somebody who does not have skin as dark as ash and eyes as red as blood goes all, 'We're so similar' on us. We're certainly more similar than Imperials or Bretons, I'll give you that. And damned well more similar than Nords or Redguards or Argonians. But allow me to remind you history. You kicked us out, millennia ago, when all we wanted to do is think differently and pray differently. Which is more than enough reason for Morrowind to not feel any kinship with you. There, however, is a detail. Your exile imposed on us left us with this land, this land which we love more than we love ourselves. So I do think that we should be grateful to you in a roundabout way. But that doesn't make us similar. You aren't ashborn. You never lived in the shadow of Red Mountain. So you'll excuse us if I make it very clear from the start that we have no interest in joining the Aldmeri Dominion, in case you developed such an illusion."

Arendur nodded neither slowly nor quickly, assuring Lleran that he understands.

"Now that that's clear enough to you, we can get down to business. I am honestly glad that your war with the, um, let's call it 'the Empire' for the sake of pure convenience, went well a good three years ago when I couldn't be there to congratulate you. And I'm sorry that you don't seem to be well on the way to get that half of Hammerfell you were promised. And I'm really interested on what you have to say on, well, everything that's going on in Morrowind. Because the Thalmor are strong. And I'm not so stupid as to not see the evident fact that the Empire will sit and obey like a tame dog as long as it's kept weak. And the Thalmor's strength keeps it weak. So I would like to see an ally in the Thalmor, and, my friend, no, I am not so naïve as to not be aware of the distinction between ally and client. And I will not tolerate a client Morrowind, ever again until the very dust from my bones will be gone. Do I make myself clear, Arendur of Shimmerene?"

Finally, Arendur shifted. Lleran smiled to himself in his thoughts. _Everyone can be broken. Even Thalmor._

"You do," Arendur nodded meaninglessly in a manner worthy of Tarvyn, his hands gripping the handles of his armchair tighter, "quite, quite clear. May I speak now, Lleran? I would like to relay my king's position."

The Dunmer sighed almost artistically. "If you must. No, just kidding, stop minding the etiquette already and tell me."

"My king would gladly recognize the Kingdom of Resdayn. It seems to be in Aldmeri interests that Morrowind would be independent from Black Marsh."

"Would, seems, such undefined terms. Will he recognize it or will he not?"

Arendur waited for a few seconds, considering what to say.

"It might've not occurred to you here in the East, but in Firsthold, where Morgiah, princess of Morrowind, has until quite recently been Queen Mother, there's been a revolution. The local inhabitants have been disappointed with a half-Dunmer on the throne, I'm afraid, and have seized the city and handed it over to direct Thalmor administration. In other words, it's royal land now. Morgiah disappeared in the uprising. Her son, Uilernir, however, is currently something of a hybrid between a guest and a prisoner at Alinor. We would like to have him deported here and given Resdaynian citizenship."

Lleran crossed his arms. "I highly doubt that's the only demand the seeming second incarnate of the Ayleid Empire could've thought of."

"Your doubt is wise. We would also like that after the mutual recognition of independence, a military alliance would be formally established – for a duration yet to be debated. No, before you ask, not a very imposing one, not anything that would curb Morrowind's independence. Just a typical military alliance: your enemies are ours, and our enemies are yours."

Lleran sighed. "I expected something like this, what with the war against Hammerfell. Are you sure? Neither of us has any real border with the other's enemy. It'd be a war on nothing but paper."

"On the contrary. There are incredible reserves of ebony and adamantium under Morrowind. Incredible reserves of gold and of silver under Valenwood. And metals for which there are no names in Dunmeris under the Summerset Isles. My Dunmer friend, you said it yourself: we, the Dominion and Resdayn, we are the only nations who can truly stand against a return of the Empire."

Lleran stood up and walked towards the only window in the Situation Room. He liked to look out towards Mournhold when he needed to think.

"You have a deal," he said, after a long, long while. "That doesn't mean I _like _you, though. Or even trust you. Quite the polar opposite."

"Wise," Arendur smiled with a sheepish grin Lleran wanted to go in an outrage over, accusing the Altmer of plagiarism, "Very, very, very wise. Not trusting us, that is. And not liking us… at the very least, it makes a lot of sense."


	8. Well, Maybe Except One Or Two People

**Ha. To my great joy, I have discovered an extremely detailed map of Morrowind, including the mainland. Extremely detailed.**

* * *

><p>When Lleran entered the chamber of the Grand Council for the first time after the battle, he was surprised to find himself early. Only Vonden was there, waiting for him – quite surprising, really, because there always was the fact that Lleran knew Anatwyne and Golven to never be late. Velsa, not so much. ...Hm, even Golven was late sometimes. But Anatwyne? Her, never. She was always at the meetings early, having something important to say. She'd never hold a meeting if she wouldn't have anything important to say.<p>

"How are you faring, Andalas?" Vonden raised an eyebrow in the process of asking this question.

"Fine, fine, _Hlaalu_," Lleran smiled, a rather malevolent smile at that, while sitting down straight across the round table of the Council from Vonden, "and if you tell me I don't look that, I'm going to punch you. Hard. They're going to be collecting your teeth off the floor for a week."

Vonden nodded, noting he understood. Or rather, evidently, misunderstood. He never had much a sense of humor.

"Good then. Sorry to put this weight on your back on your first day, but while everyone's missing, I have to tell you something, Lleran. There's trouble. No, not with the war. The war's been going great, we've pushed the Argonians back, and we're even hearing news of strongholds that constitute the outer line of defense for their forces in Narsis falling to our troops. The trouble is in the Morag Tong. That lich of yours, the one who sold us out to the Argonians. Retard must be whoever did that, definitely a retard before a traitor. But thing is, we have no leads. Except that he wasn't too smart. He tried tricking us rather stupidly, you know? We figured him out, and organized a defense in time. And another thing…"

Lleran never heard what the bald Dunmer's "other thing" was. The door to the room slammed open, and Anatwyne entered, clad in her least battle-ready robes, namely a leather jacket and a long and surprisingly expensive dark red skirt, accompanied by Velsa. Anatwyne avoided Lleran's gaze, what he thoroughly expected. He avoided her gaze too.

"Golven won't be here today," Anatwyne nodded as she sat down, still avoiding Lleran's gaze, "He went out to take care of some business with his Indoril friends. Some kids down in the Blue Quarter have drunk too much last night, and accidentally killed each other. House Indoril's being torn apart in two directions just because the kids happened to both be of the aforementioned house. Point being, he's not going to be here today. Let's get down to business, shall we?"

Besides the quiet ambience of Velsa sitting down and a murmured, "Mhm," from Vonden, there was absolute silence for a millisecond. It only took that long for Anatwyne to understand that it was a much less redundant form of an approving nod.

"Right, well. The key problem to us still remains," here, a dagger emerged from under her belt as she slammed it into a map of Morrowind laid on the table, right on the spot where Narsis stood. Straight out splitting the little orange – thus symbolizing Argonian – strategy flag in two. "Until Narsis falls, I will not sleep soundly. Until Narsis falls, I will not sleep at all. We have to take it, take it quickly, before the Argonians have time to recover. Take it _now_."

"Isn't that simple," Vonden growled. "We've got the whole Deshaan Plains in the way. Meaning, the whole northern Black Marsh army. We can't just break through them all."

"Why not?" suddenly, Lleran spoke. Everyone's eyes turned to him. "We've broken them already, routed them from Almalexia. By now, they're probably at Lake Andaram," he pointed at one of Morrowind's biggest lakes on the map, precisely between Mournhold and Narsis. "If we march out tomorrow morning, by twelve we'll be at Kogo'Aimrah, which seems to have pretty much been left derelict of a garrison. Once we seize Kogo'Aimrah, the way into the Plains will be clear. Only a few hours march from Kogo'Aimrah to Lake Andaram. If we catch them in time, they'll most likely have to make their stand at Tel Aedra, and that, my friends, will be their mistake. They'll be trapped at Tel Aedra. We'll start a siege. Block both roads. The northern road to Tel Aedra is already in our hands as it is, and the southern – we'll come up to them from the southern. We'll get some troops over from Gah Ruhn, from Old Ebonheart to hold the north; and if they escape in time, make it away from Lake Andaram in time, all the better for us. We'll seize control of the eastern Deshaan. The heartland of Morrowind shall be ours again. More. In the west, in Kragenmoor, sits Marena Norvayn. The woman's a devil in a warrior's armor; you know how she dealt with the Argonian garrison. They say she's got three thousand mer under her command now, from all over the western regions. It's time to call on them already; have them march towards Narsis already, join our ten thousand. We have to finish this, finish this now, before we've lost our chance. _F'lah_, if we wait, this war won't. Every hour we waste makes it two hours longer."

Finally, Anatwyne did not avoid his eyes. She looked at him, hard, serious, lost in a chain of thoughts Lleran thought must've strained her mind. Lleran did not return that stare. He knew she needed to think. He knew, because he often needed to think. And he knew, because he _knew her_.

"We march out in three days time," she finally, after a long, long silence, said.

* * *

><p>Lleran loved to relax. Born into nobility, raised a street rat… only to find his sister and his relatives amongst mysterious circumstances only when an already grown mer, he developed a taste for the finer things in life, things he never had, even though he was meant to have them. Lounging in an armchair with a glass of wine in his hand was one of these finer things.<p>

But today, today was going to be a serious day, not to be made any more lighthearted by his wine and his lounging. He had a lot more chairs positioned strategically in the Situation Room, in a straight line facing his armchair. And he wasn't surprised at all when a knock on the door and his subsequent "Come in." resulted in two soldiers of his personal guard – he had formed such a thing for himself from the _least _elite men of his regiment, plus a few sellswords he had hired on his own personal (or rather, his manor's personal) funds, reasoning that the veterans were really needed to train the fresh blood in the regiment as opposed to protecting him – bringing in something of a small crowd of people.

"Serjo Andalas. As requested, sera."

"Aye, thanks, _f'lah_. You two may go. As for the rest of you… Well, all of you, sit down at your leisure. I think I'll…"

"Excuse me, most respected sir," said in Cyrodiilic, without the slightest intention to sit down, a member of the crowd, a Breton, apparently a mage by the looks of his clothing, who boasted such long brown hair that it would've been held indecent in a few entire provinces. "I would like to say just how honored I am to be here, in Morrowind, amongst my great friends the Dunmer, a great and heroic people so idealistically fighting for what they believe in. I, the magnificent Salomon Sintieve, master of the arcane, hail from the Isle of Balfiera, and I have great respect for you, sir Andalas, as I have during my stay here heard of your magnanimity, and the tales of Lord Andalas, the Lowborn Lord, are echoed by the very winds of time since the start of this revolution…"

Lleran held up a hand, in a universal gesture interpreted as either a hail to the Emperor or an order to keep silent. Because this was Morrowind, only one of those could be legitimately expected. In any timeframe whatsoever.

He sighed as Sintieve refused to understand it, and was dragged to sit down by an olive-skinned, dark-haired elf dressed in light armor to his right.

"Is he a little touched?" the Dunmer councilor asked in Dunmeris to no one in particular in the group. Surprising him, the one to answer was the only Argonian there, a light tan-colored Argonian, and because he was Argonian, Lleran did not expect him to know Dunmeris.

"Apparently so," he nodded. "We've only been with him since those two guards came and brought us all together. I assume you have something to do with this, serjo?"

"Aye, indeed I do. Now." Here, he switched to Cyrodiilic. "I want to find out some quick information about all of you. Let's start from the leftmost. No, I can see you opening your mouth. Not your left. My left. Yeah, what's your name, Dunmer? Where're you from?"

The Dunmer sitting leftmost of the group – Lleran's leftmost – was a lighthaired one, with his hair tied in a braid that went straight up in a popular, quite martial, Dunmer fashion. He twitched and shifted uncomfortably in his chair upon hearing the word "name".

"… Uh, Ano Andrano, sera. I hail from Kogo'Aimrah, but haven't been home in a long time… lived some time in Tel Ouada, Port Telvannis, and Necrom. Now I live here, in Mournhold."

Lleran raised an eyebrow.

"Ano Andrano."

"Yes."

"If that's a pseudonym made up to hide your true identity, it's a pretty damn lame one."

"No, I'm serious, sera. Ano Andrano."

"_F'lah_, there are over nine thousand Ano Andranos in Morrowind, I'm pretty damn sure of it. It's hard to find a household without an Ano, and it's hard to find a town without a few Andranos."

"Yes, and I'm one of them both, sera. My parents, they weren't too imaginative people, I'm afraid."

Lleran sighed and finally lowered his eyebrow. "What do you do?"

"What, you mean work?"

"Yes, I mean _work_. Or a _job_, or an _occupation_. Or _something remotely useful to yourself._"

"I'm afraid I don't do much anything, sera. Just whatever needs doing, I suppose. Lately I've been trading. My friend's a blacksmith, he works ebony armor over in Old Ebonheart and then sends-"

"I get the picture, Andrano. You've also been trading in relics. Daedric relics."

Ano Andrano went red in a matter of seconds.

"I swear sera, I meant no sacrilege-"

"Don't worry. The Princess of Dawn and Dusk doesn't give a damn if you sell something that belongs to, say, Malacath. You haven't been selling her relics, right?"

"No sera, never-"

"Good. Now, you know how to use a sword. Pretty damn sure of it, because you survived those Daedric shrines, and pretty much anything, from atronachs to Dremora, that lurked within. If you wouldn't have, well, you wouldn't have. Pretty articulate display of ability, I do think. That articulate display of ability is exactly why you're here. I'll give you more info when I'm finished with everyone-"

"Speaking of articulate display of ability," Salomon Sintieve burst out here, "I would like to say that I, the magnificent Salomon Sintieve, am skilled in every school of magic, with a natural tendency towards Destruction and Restoration. I seem to be a unique case, for only a few can boast-"

Lleran did not have to tell Sintieve to shut up now. The olive-skinned elf that sat beside him decided he can't take no more and backhanded him across the face rather hard, followed by his fist knocking him out for good. Salomon slumped down on the chair.

"Thank you," he said in Cyrodiilic to the elf of undetermined origin. What followed was an amazing display of a rather painful attempt by the olive-skin to get his tongue 'round the unfamiliar sounds of the language and say, "You welcaim". At what Lleran was amazed. Of course, since the Oblivion Crisis, Cyrodiilic had slowly lost its status of being a language everyone had to somehow learn to get along well in life, but it was still a _lingua franca_. Lleran decided that henceforth he'd speak in Dunmer – the (presumed) Altmer, a very dark-skinned Altmer to be more exact, probably would understand it better.

"Anyway," Lleran nodded meaninglessly in the greatest manner that he took from Tarvyn, "The lady to Ano's right. Your name, milady?"

To Ano's right sat a Redguard woman in an expensive skirt and equally expensive armor of dark leather. Her hair was black, as was often the case amongst Redguards. Once, Lleran would've found it difficult to tear his eyes off her breasts, which were an impressive sight to behold. But that "once" was before Anatwyne.

"D'hemka," she answered, a grim expression on her young face. "Of Sentinel."

"Aye," nodded Lleran. "And Hammerfell has actually requested us to give you in to them. I take it you're not popular with the rebels."

She did not go red, she did not twitch. She nodded.

"I'm not particularly interested on whom you're popular with, really. But you've worked with the Blades before, and with the Thalmor afterwards. I don't blame you for this change of sides; really, saving your life is a good, really good incentive. But I need someone with your expertise of these two groups. Someone with your knowledge of underground politics. Someone with your knowledge of who in truth sits behind the thrones of Summerset Isle and Cyrodiil."

She nodded, slowly. But her grim expression did not disappear.

"The Dunmer to the right of D'hemka, I know you. I invited you personally. For those that don't know this mer, his name is Ralyn Marvayn, assassin of the Morag Tong who is actually the Dunmer who slew the commander of Mournhold garrison at the beginning of this revolt. I needed him for a very specific reason, namely, I need an informer in the Morag Tong, and after slightly looking into the matter, I've found him. More on that later."

Ralyn Marvayn's expression did not change once during the time that Lleran was speaking.

Lleran's eyes passed over the passed-out Salomon Sintieve, who he knew to be an exceptionally talented (and egocentric) mage, who for unexplainable reasons was obsessed with the Dunmer and quite recently sent in a letter to the Grand Council asking how he could help in a terrifyingly pompous manner – so Lleran asked to have him brought along - and landed on the olive-skinned Elf.

"Your name, my friend?" he asked, this time in Dunmeris, hoping for a better result than was achieved with Cyrodiilic.

"Moriche," he said, after the question was slowly repeated. Abruptly, and rather quickly.

Lleran, and not for the first time today, raised an eyebrow.

"Moriche? Interesting name. It's not Altmer, is it?"

Moriche remained silent. But his expression gave out that this question he understood.

"Nevermind, anyway. What language do you speak best?"

The Dunmer councilor knew Moriche was trying to assemble an answer, putting an apparent painful strain on his mind.

"I… talk… in… ay… no… Khajiit. Talk Ta'agra. Khajiit."

Lleran's reaction was a gulp. Now of all the languages that could be expected, why did he have to know the least-expected and the one that he could get the least people to translate?

He scratched his chin. "Okay, let's do this. I'll speak in Dunmeris. If you don't understand what I'm saying, shake your head twice. If you mean, "No" – shake your head once. If you mean, "yes" – nod. Agreed?"

Moriche nodded.

"Are you an Altmer?"

The nod was awfully quick. Evidently a lie. Well, it didn't matter. As much as it was curiosity-arousing from where this strange mer hailed, it could wait.

"You've been caught stealing, correct?"

Moriche shook his head twice.

"Serjo, if you will," here, a Dunmeri woman sitting to his right interceded, "my friend here doesn't seem to understand the difference between stealing and owning something. Actually…"

"You know him, personally?" Lleran prayed to Azura quietly that the answer would be yes.

"Not quite, sera. Well, you know, he doesn't speak Dunmeris. But he tried to rob my house, and I happened to come in and catch him in the process. Overpowered him, too. You see, I once trained with the Companions, in Skyrim, and picked up some skills. Your guards came running, and were amazed at what I had done. So they told me that you'd probably like to see me, since you were looking for men of ability. Or women, in my case. And I told them, because Moriche here didn't even expect me to fight him – I saw, he didn't even try to run when I screamed upon seeing that he was stealing my silverware, and when I attacked him, I think I only won because I took him by surprise – I told them that if they want to me to come along, they had to let him go. I don't even know why they agreed, probably because I told them he seemed strange, and they trusted me, because it's evident from his skin color. And I talked to him, and after a long good hour of attempting to exchange conversation he had started to understand me enough for me to get a clear idea of his past. He was raised by a Khajiit ever since he was little, you see. Some sort of wanderer, I believe. And prior to that, he refused to tell me. I got the impression his family lived in Cyrodiil for some reason, though."

Lleran scratched his chin. "Well, then, okay. Or not particularly okay, more like, confusing, but that's okay. That's enough data for me. You seem like a wonderful – if you will forgive me the word, milady – asset, and he seems like too dangerous to be kept away from you, because you're the person who seems to know him best. In the process of the task that I'll be giving you all here, it would be probably best to teach him Dunmeris. Also, I seem to have missed it… your name?"

"Gorenea Gimayn," she said.

Here, the mer who sat to her right – a fair-haired, strangely tall (for a Wood Elf) Bosmer – chuckled. "So much alliteration today," he said, as Lleran's gaze attentively turned to him. "I'm afraid I'll have to break it. Maenlorn. Of Arenthia. See, even if cities of origin counted, I wouldn't fit in. Buuuuut… I think I'll pass."

"You definitely will, Bosmer," Lleran smiled, maliciously. "Pass, that is. Tell me, what is it you do in life?"

Maenlorn's smile went away and he raised an eyebrow. Lowered it slowly afterwards, as he began to speak.

"Fish. Ever since my wife left me – terrible woman, don't know why I left my homeland for that whore – I've been making a living fishing in Almalexia River. Or, sometimes, I go further downstream, to the Meralag – good places for fishing. Good rivers. But I don't earn a lot."

"Precisely," Lleran noted. "Not a single lie in all those sentences. But a lot of things left out. My friends, Maenlorn here once served in the Valenwood army, component to the united army of the Aldmeri Dominion. He's a decorated battle veteran: fought against the Empire, and against Hammerfall. Asked for leave when during war he met a mercenary Dunmer woman, who he fell in love with and married. Together, they left towards Morrowind, his wife's homeland. And you heard how he spoke of his wife. But, Maenlorn, fortunately for you, you're about to go into a much better employment. Mine. You've been recommended to me by an old friend of yours. Remember Arendur of Shimmerene?"

Maenlorn raised an eyebrow again. And smiled.

"I like you already, Lowborn Lord," he said, "only a man of steel would survive Arendur and remain so himself."

"That's the impression I got too. Anyway, we're at the end now," his eyes flicked to the literal end of the line of chairs – and of people sitting on them – and the Argonian sitting on the last chair.

"What's your name, Argonian?"

"Do you have a problem with Argonians, Lord Andalas?" the Argonian somewhat drunkenly asked.

"Not unless they try to kill me. And I have problems with Dunmer who try to kill me too, so that's hardly important. But you didn't answer the question."

The Argonian smiled, still somewhat drunkenly. "Is-Better-Than-You."

"What did you say?" Lleran asked, as he fell deeper into his armchair, an expression that defies description appearing on his face.

"That's my name, sera. Is-Better-Than-You. Doesn't mean that it's true – my parents, unlike Ano Andrano's over there at the opposite end, had great imagination. Sometimes overactive, I might add."

Lleran raised an eyebrow. "If I was an Argonian, I quite frankly would worship my parents simply for giving me such a name. Aaaaand, apparently, my guards caught you causing trouble at the Winged Guar, am I right?"

"Well, I wouldn't call it trouble. Just a few bones broken. Eh, we were all drunk, you can't really blame us."

"Yes. Except, those who had a few bones broken amounted to the overall number of six mer and two men. And another two Khajiit at first wanted to enter, but then when they saw how you painfully finished all of them off, that desire was quickly wiped away."

The Argonian smiled. "That might be where I'm better at than most people. Fistfighting."

"And a natural talent, too. Which is why I brought you here. Of course, the fine for injuring those people was already exacted A quarter of it was taken from things you own, back at your house in Darnim Watch. And another three quarters I covered. Not to mention, relieved you of your hard labor sentence. In exchange for your service."

Is-Better-Than-You retained his smile. "Anything you want, serjo."

"Correct answer, you win. You all do. Now here's what I want from all of you here. Morrowind's always been famed for the arts of trickery and intrigue. Boethiah, our god-ancestor himself, taught us them. Sadly, Boethiah forgot to come down from Oblivion and personally teach me, because I can never seem to properly master them. But I'm going to try, try very hard. This is why I hired you. All of you are a motley crew of thieves, warriors, assassins, fishermen who used to be generals, and generally very, very varying personalities. So it should not be suspicious to anyone if you happen to be "friends" – because there's nothing quite in common between you. I mean, your backgrounds. You'll act as the agents of the Council, and the agents of Morrowind. You'll act as my eyes and ears. In other words, spies."

He let the words settle in with a long pause.

"Now, if there is anyone who is not interested, you can leave now. The problem is, you don't know what you'll be giving up. As you may have all noted, I've relieved some of you of your past crimes. That's only the start of what help I can be. For a loyal and trustworthy service, I'll make sure every one of you is thrice-repaid. And even more importantly, perhaps more to those of you born and raised here in Morrowind: you'll be serving your country. So, if any one of you wants to leave… leave now. But heed my warning: if one of you so much as utters a single word about what I'm planning here, he won't utter any words ever again. Not to mention, I wouldn't really honestly care, because a few illusions later all you can look different. If your identities are compromised, we'll create new ones."

Nobody stood up. Nobody left. Moriche shook his head twice.

"Good then. Your first assignment, people: the Morag Tong. Namely, there's a lich in it, that's been giving out information to Black Marsh. Vital information. All we know now is: they've got access to top-level information in the Morag Tong, BUT, they aren't particularly intelligent, or at least want us to think so. You'll split into two groups. Moriche, Gorenea, Maenlorn and Ano; Ralyn, D'hemka, Salomon Sintieve and Is-Better-Than-You. Maenlorn will be placed in command of the first group. Ralyn in command of the second one. Maenlorn, your group's objective is to collect information – and by information, I mean anything from wild rumors to certain, established facts - on the Morag Tong in Mournhold-Almalexia. I'm not quite sure – I'll probably have to leave soon, so if I do, I'll leave someone behind in Mournhold which you'll relay the information to. I'll keep you updated. Ralyn, I know how much honor means for a Morag Tong assassin-"

"Nonsense, Lleran," he spoke, for the first time. "If we don't root out this lich, the Morag Tong cannot actively participate in intelligence and planning. Morrowind is above honor."

Lleran nodded. "Thank you. Yes, so, Ralyn, you'll be collecting information from within the Morag Tong. The other members of your group will be there to assist in any way you may require. Their talents are of quite a wide range, so I expect you won't be disappointed with them. Once Sintieve wakes, tell him everything. And for now… this meeting is concluded. Your orders take effect now, my friends. But before that…"

He grinned. Smirked, even. Not to mention, quite triumphantly.

"Help Salomon out of here, will you?"

* * *

><p>"Lleran, I need to talk to you."<p>

Her voice. But he found it difficult to believe it was her. He felt too unlucky to believe it was her.

Well, no way to check but to stop gazing out a window towards Godsreach and turn around and face her.

It was Anatwyne indeed, her long auburn hair whirling around her shoulder. Was strange. She usually wore it loose, falling down on the back.

And yet, this made her even more beautiful – she looked more feminine, even more complimented by the dark blue, expensive dress she was wearing.

"Anytime," he said, practically breathlessly as his eyes made their way back up towards hers. "What is it?"

"You're not marching towards the Deshaan, Lleran. You're staying here, in Mournhold."

His mouth went ajar. He could not comprehend this. Staying here? In Mournhold? While the strategic fate of Morrowind would be decided on the Deshaan? Staying here, in Mournhold… while Anatwyne goes…

"Yes, Lleran, you're staying here," Anatwyne said, avoiding his eyes. "I've made a decision – the Grand Council has to take a more active role in the uprising. I'm going with the army. Velsa's going towards Blacklight, where she, as a Redoran, will take command of pretty much their entire house. She'll be Archmaster in all but name. Deserved that, I think. She's always wanted to be Archmaster, remember?"

Lleran would've nodded if he wasn't so disappointed on the fact that he was staying. He wanted to go with the army. He wanted to go, because she was going. And he couldn't have forgiven himself anything that could've happened to her.

"Vonden's temporarily going eastward, to Necrom, and then on to Port Telvannis – he's going to try and make sure House Telvanni participates more actively in the uprising. So far what they've done is slaughter Argonian garrisons and afterwards simply go back to studying the arcane phenomena of blah blah blah, ignoring the world as they've always done."

"I don't see where I come in, though," Lleran finally got back to being himself. Rather abruptly too, all things considered.

"Don't interrupt," sternly, she said in the most classic Anatwyne manner. "and Golven, he head out north just an hour ago. More precisely, towards Old Ebonheart. He's going to try and put the city in order."

Lleran scratched his chin. "I pity the fool."

After the descent and subsequent explosion of the Ministry of Truth, that disastrous event that precipitated a whole sequence of tragedies for Morrowind, including the eruption of Red Mountain, its collision with the sea resulted in a tidal wave that swept over the central northern coast of the mainland, destroying at the very least half of Old Ebonheart in the process – and leaving the other half empty of life. During the very short period of time between the eruption of Red Mountain and the Argonian invasion of Morrowind, Helseth tried to have Old Ebonheart repopulated – but an actual effort started only after the invasion. The city was repopulated by refugees. Old Ebonheart was where refugees of the (brief) war and the subsequent occupation went, hiding amongst the ruins of the city. Slowly, the population recovered, after a good century. What was left of it now was a city of ancient glories and little future. A city of impoverished slums, where every mer had less than a copper in his pocket. A city of ruins, where orphans and the homeless fled to seek refuge from the cold. A refugee camp established in what was once the second-greatest city in all Morrowind.

"Point being, Lleran," she looked him in the eyes again, "I need someone I can trust to take care of the capital of Morrowind while I'm gone. And I trust you most of all."


	9. No Peace, No Quiet, Nowhere

**Wow, four chapters in hardly a week, and look at the word counts. I must really want people to review this thing.**

**_hinthint_**

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><p>After everything good in life, there comes a period when you are not able to enjoy that good thing. In this case, after a few days of peace and quiet in Mournhold, suddenly, a whole list of tasks that need to be done materialized in the world for Lleran. Anatwyne rode out two days earlier, with eleven thousand men, bringing along pretty much anyone Lleran might've wanted to talk to, ask for advice, or in some other manner socialize with, including but not limited to: herself, Tarvyn, as the newly appointed Field Marshal of Resdayn, Nathala, who simply refused to leave Tarvyn, plus, she had to do her duty as a newly appointed councilor – a development that surprised Lleran to no end – of House Indoril, and pretty much all of Lleran's remaining friends. Now, he had to deal with a new problem. And he <em>had <em>to deal with it, because Arendur was staying in the Winged Guar and Lleran knew that this alliance between the Dominion and Morrowind highly depended on whether both sides kept their promises. Pretty much, just like _any_ alliance.

"Uilernir, I presume?"

Before Lleran, in the Situation Room, now sat a rather young Dunmer with slightly unusually pale skin, his dark hair cropped short just above the ears. He shifted his face disdainfully so as to not look upon Lleran. A true former king, no less. The perfect arrogant lord raised to believe the world was his and all he had to do to get something was to _want_ it hard enough.

"I'd not make arrogant expressions if I were you," Lleran smiled. "You're back in your mother's homeland, and you're henceforth expected to behave as a citizen of this homeland. Or we'll kill you in the name of this homeland. Quickly and painlessly – for we do not like useless brutality – but it won't matter, because you'll be dead. And no, before you ask, you have no right to the kingship. It just so happens that it is politically unconvincing to crown you king. And that face of yours is so ugly; I hardly believe anyone would want to see it come out of the Royal Palace. And definitely not into the Royal Palace as anything more than a servant, I can assure you."

The mouth of the half-Dunmer, half-Altmer went ajar. "You dare-"

"Yes, I do, _commoner_," Lleran's mouth contorted into a smirk as he observed horror engulfing Uilernir's face, "and you will address a man of superior rank properly, that is, 'my lord'."

He watched the expressions change, defying any description, in Uilernir's face, back and forth from horror through anger all the way to sheer madness.

"Or, at least, that's what I'd say and say honestly if I was as arrogant as you. Fortunately for me, I'm not. Now. I've prepared several potential jobs for you, after brief conversations with a couple of my friends from around Morrowind, to get you started. Or, you could start off on your own, but I ill-advise you – in this time of war, the only trade that is highly desired is soldier. And you don't look the soldiery type. So, would you rather be a farmhand, a fisherman or a blacksmith's assistant?"

Uilernir's mouth went ajar again. Evidently this treatment was beyond all of his expectations.

"Ah, I get it. Stupid question, I know. Farmhand it is. Get to Balen Sadri in the Sadri Farm, north of Mournhold, and tell him Andalas sent you. It's a long walk, but if you start walking now, you'll be there in six hours. Needless to say, that's also where you'll be sleeping. I have far better things to do than provide you with luxury accommodations."

Uilernir spoke, finally, his voice shivering with anger. "How _dare _you treat me this way? I am King of Firsthold!"

"_Exiled _king of Firsthold. And not too good a king either from what I've heard."

"I was promised refuge! And rights reflecting my status! A noble's rights-"

"You're no noble," Lleran hissed, standing up. "You're a piece of dirt on this great land. You're the most meager, most worthless piece of dirt here. I promised no such thing to the Thalmor, so if they promised that to you, I'm damn sad and sorry for you. Thing is," his hand suddenly lashed out and gripped Uilernir by the throat, raising him into the air abruptly as the half-Dunmer, half-Altmer struggled to break free, "I don't see in you a noble. I don't see an ounce of what any true Dunmer considers nobility. I see no devotion to the true gods and I see no will to sacrifice your life for what you believe in. Hell, I don't see anything you believe in besides yourself. I see not a Dunmer, not an Altmer, but the worst of those two races, combined. Now," here he let a frightened-to-near-death Uilernir go and slump down on his chair, "you get to Sadri Farm. And work. Learn this land. You do not deserve to learn it, hell, you do not deserve to live on it, place a single smelly boot on its soil, but I will let you do so anyway. Why? Because I'm too good for my own good. Now get lost."

Didn't have to tell him twice. As soon as he went out the door, one of Lleran's servants stepped in.

"Sera, there's a messenger here to see you."

Lleran nodded. "Send him in."

The servant castled with a Dunmeri man standing right behind him and removed himself from the area, while the Dunmer respectfully bowed, provoking another nod from Lleran.

"Speak."

The Dunmer cleared his throat and spoke.

"Lady Anatwyne sends her greetings from the Old Keep, Tel Aedra, on Andaram Lake. Last night, the army took the town and keep. The Argonians had left behind a thousand men to hold Old Keep, while the majority of the army broke through the Ralen Woods, aiming towards Lake Coronati and, presumably, Narsis. Lady Anatwyne intends to pursue."

Lleran raised an eyebrow and nodded approvingly. "Is that all?"

"Yes, sera."

"Thank you. Good work. Is there anything you need?"

"Somewhere to rest would help, serjo. I've been riding nonstop since Tel Aedra, milord."

Lleran clapped. He loved when the servants responded after he clapped loudly enough. It was often both hilarious and very convenient. It was as if they, sitting dead quiet, waited and listened for him to do so.

"Take sera messenger here to the guest room and let him rest for as long as necessary."

"Thank you, serjo," the messenger said, whilst bowing.

"You're welcome. Also… when you go back to Anatwyne…"

"Yes, serjo?"

"… Give her this," Lleran ended the sentence, taking an amulet with the mark of Mephala off his neck and handing it to the messenger.

Mephala, the goddess of many things. Amongst them, war. And love.

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><p>Maenlorn waved to the Dunmer barkeep of the former <em>Tail and Tongue<em>, now, as politically incorrect, renamed to _Redeye_, as he led the not-at-all-famous Ano, Gorenea and Moriche inside and towards a table at the darkest corner of the room.

"Get me some flin, Arvyn," he shouted back to the barkeep as he proceeded to sit down. The other three did so too.

"So, people," the Bosmer nodded. "What info have you collected so far?"

Ano nodded. "I've heard pretty much typical stuff. There're few rumors about the Morag Tong, because, well, they don't want there to be any. Heard only a few out of the ordinary. One, some noble seems to have a lover in the Morag Tong. Two, apparently a few younger members of the Tong are out of control, or so I've overheard. They're rampaging through the ruins of Old Mournhold and the slums of Almalexia, annihilating Dark Brotherhood hideouts brutally and mercilessly. Stuck a few on pikes – mostly Argonians – and placed them in the streets of the city."

Gorenea sighed, "We heard the same." Moriche shook his head twice.

Maenlorn smiled and leant back. "So did I. Except, unlike you, I decided to actually look into this. Went to the nearest Morag Tong guildhall. Worked my ass off 'round their secrecies, hell, I would've done shit in that regard if Auriel would've not smiled on me and sent Ralyn Marvayn, who happened to be around, to help me out. With Ralyn's help, I could figure out that it was not a controlled action – just a bunch of kids who misinterpreted the Morag Tong code, they said. 'You know how young people often are.' They apparently were reprimanded for their 'pike' act. Well, I asked if I could see one of them. I was allowed to do so, and I _did so_, and I got quite a different idea from what I learned then."

He made a pause, evidently waiting for someone to ask what he learnt. To everyone's great surprise, it was Moriche who asked, in a painfully broken Dunmeris: "Learned then what?"

The Bosmer's grin went wider. "Alas, my Dunmer and… something else friends, here's where our work ends and Ralyn's begins. The Morag Tong was trying to cover up this story, trying to take care of it themselves; therefore, this passes to him. Apparently, they got a batch of falsified orders recently. Namely, instructing them to systematically execute all Dark Brotherhood assassins in Morrowind by tomorrow, and I'm afraid they're quite done. The Morag Tong appears to have taken up the policy of reprimanding them to check with the high command on whether orders are genuine if you receive them on paper, because of how untrustworthy it seems when your orders are delivered to you written down when the one who supposedly issued them is standing right in the next hall. Ralyn, however, is going to look into this personally. He's Tong, so they won't be mad. And he was ordered to deal with the Tong from the interior, not us."

Ano leant back. Gorenea shifted uncomfortably. "So what do we do?" she asked. Moriche tried to articulate some support for that question, but, Maenlorn realized, he probably couldn't find the words in Dunmeris.

"Ralyn said we should surmise this info and bring it to Lleran. He's probably got some new task for us, he reckoned, what with all the emotions in the city right now, now that the army's went for Narsis."

Here, the flin was brought forth by a waitress, and equally partitioned into four glasses. Maenlorn raised his.

"Here, my friends. To friendship."

Ano smiled. Gorenea did not. Moriche rather quickly, enthusiastically, raised his glass and drank up. Maenlorn did the same.

"Ah, the best thing about this goddamn country."

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><p>Ralyn observed his target from a quiet hiding location in the balcony of an abandoned manor as she passed through the streets of the New Mournhold District of Almalexia. Namely, a fugitive from the Morag Tong, a Dunmer by the name of Aryni Gilnith (121), who forsook the paths of Mephala and turned to, amongst other things, selling Tong secrets to the Dark Brotherhood for a living. However, as surprising as it might've been, Ralyn's goal was not the death of this fugitive. No. There was reason to believe Aryni may have been offered amnesty from someone amongst the Tong for removing that knowledge from the Dark Brotherhood's mind in some fashion. And there was reason to believe that even if Aryni was not involved with the fake orders circulating around the Tong, she may have known valuable information.<p>

However, nobody in the East - or, naturally, the West - knew anything of where Aryni lived. She, what with her current situation, preferred to live in secrecy, and Ralyn couldn't blame her.

But now, that secrecy would have to be broken and utterly shattered into pieces. As he observed her enter a shack, and observed the subsequent lack of movement afterwards, he knew what his group's first assignment would be.

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><p>Dunmeri lore told legends of the Ralen Woods, south of Lake Andaram. Legends of death, blood, and dark magic. It was a wide, expansive forest – possibly the greatest forest in all of Morrowind. Naturally, there'd been some superstitions formed about it, Nathala always thought. But now, as the Resdaynian army marched through its ancient pathways, made their way through the ravines and the bumpy roads in the darkness, she wasn't too sure if those were superstitions. The forest seemed so alien, so refusing, she felt slightly frightened, although she'd never have admitted it to anyone. She felt more than relaxed by Tarvyn riding beside her – at first, at least. Later, he started to unnerve her as he seemed to grow wary. Grow cautious. None of them felt very well here in this ancient wood.<p>

The Argonians, intelligence said, had broken through the Woods via the northern route, practically circling them, going by Lake Andaram's shore, afterwards south, by the short, unnamed river that connected Lake Andaram to Lake Coronati, and 'round Lake Coronati, past Ald Marak and on towards Narsis. The leadership, particularly Anatwyne, insisted on them making a shortcut through the heart of the Woods, in an attempt to catch the Black Marsh army before they made it into Narsis, in order to take them down in the open, where they were vulnerable. Tarvyn, who was technically speaking Field Marshal of Resdayn now, brooded about this all day long. And at night, Nathala could never quite convince him to forget war for one moment, and she didn't blame him, either.

But at morning, he was the worst. Or rather, the strangest. He'd wake and lie motionless for hours long before he had to; Nathala knew nothing on how to make him feel better, because she knew nothing of what his problem was. He'd wake and he'd start whispering to himself. _"Save my people," _he said. At first the Indoril thought he was praying, to Azura, perhaps. She'd often wanted to pray lately, and much more often she actually did. She asked for what she always had asked for: for the goddess's blessing. For a Morrowind free of foreigner yoke. For peace. Now, though, she also asked for peace for Tarvyn. Because the more times he whispered to himself, the more she believed he was not praying.

He was thoroughly unnerved now, when they made their way down this dense ancient forest. She edged closer to him.

"Are you feeling alright, love?"

"No," Tarvyn sighed. "This road we're taking is ideal for an ambush. It's so dark I can barely see where the army's going; I can barely see you. I'm almost certain we're going to get struck by an Argonian attack anytime. And if it won't be Black Marsh, it'll be someone else, you mark my words. Anatwyne's only so intent on getting through this campaign so fast because of your brother."

Nathala raised an eyebrow in the greatest Andalas family manner.

"Because of Lleran? Why- … Oh. Now I get it. She wants to finish this quickly and go back to Mournhold."

"Exactly."

"Well, you should work with this," Nathala put a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eyes. "You can't turn the army 'round now, that we're halfway through the Ralen. So what do think we should do to get through here with as little casualties as possible?"

Tarvyn thought for a second.

"Dismounting would be a good idea. We can't fight on horseback, cold hard fact of Dunmer life, and if we're attacked-"

"Anatwyne'd never agree," Nathala interrupted him, "unless you provided her with some other way to get through the Ralen quick. Remember, Tarvyn. This isn't the field of battle. It's the way to the field of battle. On the way, you have to learn the arts of persuasion and coercion to keep your army from falling apart. So tell me again. What do you plan to do?"

He thought no longer than the first time.

"Torches. Tell everyone to make a few torches. Just some wood lit on fire, nothing more. We'll see each other better in this darkness. And then… we should burn out some of the forest! We'll get through the ravines with our carts a lot easier if there are no trees or stumps to get in our way!"

Nathala smiled. Her smile, so honest and true, made Tarvyn think of how different she was from Lleran, who never smiled unless he found something funny.

"Now, now you're thinking. Except… why are you still here? You should go give this idea to Anatwyne, Field Marshal Tarvyn."

He grinned, the expression on his face so bright, that Nathala wondered whether he'd smiled so happily since they left Mournhold. "Feels so foreign to you say hear that. You know, 'Field Marshal Tarvyn'. Call me what you always do."

"What do I call you, my love?" she said, her smile contorting into a surprised, quizzical expression completely atypical of the Andalas. An opening through the leaves of the trees above them shed a minuscule example of light on Tarvyn's face as he laughed, making his face appear as if it had a greenish tint to it and outlining his features. Nathala realized, just as she had so many years ago when they first met in one of the resistance's first meetings, how handsome he was.

"There, you just did," he said, leaning in and kissing her on the lips.


	10. Especially Not In Old Mournhold

**Look, all you people reading and enjoying my story (because I in my arrogance am unable to accept that there are none), could you just possibly review? If you're not interested in writing a full-fledged review, that's cool with me, I would just like some general feedback on what you think of the story.**

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><p>"This is Irarak Andoril," Lleran gestured to a Dunmer clad from head to toe in heavy armor examining a strategy map laid on the table beside them in this secluded room in the Royal Palace. "My military advisor, to use a grand term. Irarak, I'm afraid you'll have to leave us for a while, if you don't mind. Good mer. Now, what've you got for me?"<p>

Maenlorn grinned in his typical manner. "I'd prefer if Ralyn told you. Our investigation quickly carried over into his, so I handed over that work to him."

Lleran raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Well, I am too curious for my own good, as a lot of people tend to tell me. So please, tell me, what you've learnt."

Maenlorn sighed dramatically. "If I must. Summing this up quickly, Lowborn Lord: false orders have been circulating 'round the Morag Tong. We think that this may have something to do with the lich. So, we've handed this investigation over to Ralyn, because you literally have to be inside the Tong to continue."

Lleran wouldn't have been an Andalas if he would've not raised an eyebrow slowly and dramatically. "I see. Well, in that case, I've got a new task for you."

Gorenea sighed. "Sera, can we do this task of yours without Maenlorn? He doesn't seem to be too concerned with what we're doing."

"Shut up, woman," the Bosmer hissed. "If it wasn't for me, we'd still be struggling with this."

It was, technically speaking, true. Lleran sighed, in sync with Ano, who did the same, and Moriche, who was obviously trying very hard (the strain on his mind evident by an expression worthy of a man trying painfully to shit) to understand why these two had started arguing. And thus the first fractures in the fragile unity of this group appeared. It was to be expected, what with their different personalities, different origins and different interests, but he didn't expect it to be so _soon_.

"Shut up, all of you. Maenlorn, you'll treat the members of your group with respect if you don't want to _hang_. I'm going to make it very clear for you people: I want results. I don't care about whether you like each other or not. I just don't want you to kill yourselves because of such a dislike. At least, not until you've assisted me in bringing forth the deaths of a decent number of people that actually deserve to die."

As it was always so often after Lleran attempted his "shut up you idiots" line of speech, everyone fell silent. Moriche did not even shake his head twice.

"I'm glad we understand each other. Now. You'd better pack your bags, people. You're heading to Blacklight."

Maenlorn burst out laughing in a high-pitched tone.

"Blacklight? That's halfway across Morrowind, Lowborn Lord!"

"Yes, it is, I know my geography, thank you. You're all heading to Blacklight, unless one of you would prefer to go alone. And it's dangerous to go alone during this war of ours. There are still a few small Argonian groups on our side of the frontline, and if they see you, they're going to kill you just to make sure you don't tell anyone you saw them. Bandits and marauders seem to have abounded as well. These are shitty times we live in, so you'd better make sure they don't turn any shittier for you. Now will you let me tell you what your mission is, or do you prefer to make it more interesting and figure it out on your own?"

"Tell… please, we… need knowing," Moriche asked – or rather struggled to ask – with just a touch of caution to his tone of voice. Lleran flicked open a hand and pointed towards him.

"There, Maenlorn, you see? Here's a mer who understands what the hell he's doing. Or at least, understands what he isn't, and understands why he could get killed if he did. It more than compensates for his slippery grasp of Dunmeris. Now, your mission. I want you to get to Blacklight and, here's the trick, join and mingle with House Redoran. Or at the very least pull off a very convincing ruse of doing so."

"Why-"

"Don't interrupt, Bosmer, I'm not done. Why, you ask? There are three reasons. One, everyone has spies everywhere nowadays and I just might need to have some too. Two, House Redoran tends to only tell me the things they're not too embarrassed to say. I know, it's stupid, but their silly obsession with honor leads them – and me, consequentially – to such a point in time where, if I want to get a simple answer on how many men House Redoran has got overall, their sense of honor prohibits them from telling me that they've only got a meager two thousand throughout Morrowind. In other words, they're too shy to admit things that they're embarrassed for."

He made a pause here, waiting for the magic question. To his disappointment, it was Ano, not Maenlorn, who asked.

"And the third reason, sera?"

"I was getting to that part, stop interrupting me. There've been rumors. Wild rumors, and you hear a lot from drunken bastards down at the Winged Guar or some other Mournhold tavern, but there're rumors House Redoran's got a few nobles who are plotting to seize the, as you know, still empty throne for themselves. Yeah, Gorenea, I see your expression and I just want to say that I absolutely agree. House Redoran is not a House I'd imagine to produce any kind of plotters. They went to the extent that instead of slaughtering the Argonian garrison in some of their towns in the middle of the night when this revolt began they lined up outside the town, blew their war horns, thus waking the aforementioned garrisons, and only when those garrisons lined up to face them did they actually attack. As you understand by now, I don't trust this rumor myself. But with the current atmosphere, I can't risk it. You know. This mess with the Morag Tong. The southern Argonian army's movements down in Black Marsh, which we can't monitor, because the Black Marsh border is closed to anyone passing from the north – so we can't send in some spies. Basically, my point is, there's too much at stake right now to allow any sort of potential conspiracy to gain ground. Now. Here's the plan. I've already discussed these plans with the Redoran Archmaster in Blacklight, Eryn Llethri, quite extensively too. Here is what you're going to do, in detail. You go to Blacklight, go to its great fortress – if you haven't been there, it's a great chance, because it's truly an amazing sight – and talk to Eryn. Tell this, word by word, to him: 'An eagle may kill a dragon, but a lizard never a wolf'. He'll know what it means."

Maenlorn crossed his arms on his chest, adopting a disappointed expression. "Couldn't you have thought of a passphrase that at the very least doesn't sound cliché?"

Lleran looked him in the eyes, long, cold and hard. "So, to continue, you say those words to Eryn. He'll understand you were sent by me. He'll get you in with the Redoran and inform you further of what you have to do. Now, I assumed you might need provisions for the journey. So I talked to the quartermaster here at the Royal Palace. He said he'd put aside enough food and equipment to get you through to Blacklight. Any other questions?"

"No, we're good," Maenlorn quickly replied, before anyone could even try to get in a question. "Well, people, let's head out. We'll need to pack our bags before the journey. See you later, Lowborn Lord."

As they removed themselves from the room – or rather, were marched out by Maenlorn – and Irarak Andoril went back in, Lleran sighed, taking a deep, heavy breath. "Andoril, what was it you were saying before?"

"The southern Argonian army is moving in a rather unclear fashion, serjo. They're slowly making their way towards Archon, from what we've heard. Could be anything from 15,000 up to 30,000 men – uh, beasts – there're conflicting accounts. There's also a third army, right now in Soulrest after the conflict with the Empire. Intelligence says they amount to nine thousand, but I'd estimate something more similar to eleven thousand. That same intelligence says they may march for Morrowind at any time, but that's obvious."

Lleran scratched his chin, considering the information, adding it to his mental sum-up of the current political situation in the process. The war in Morrowind had driven the Argonians to nothing short of disaster in the south – they were forced to withdraw their troops from the borderland with the Empire. Imperial and An-Xileel delegates were currently in Lilmoth, that ruined ancient city, trying so desperately to sign a peace treaty, for the Imperials, too, were tired and weakened – the Argonian-Imperial war took a devastating effect on the economy of southern Cyrodiil, hundreds of towns being left in ruins, and the Imperial army, barely a half the size of the total of the Argonian forces due to their prior near-annihilation in the Great War, could do shit to help them.

"Does it not amaze you, Andoril?" he took to pacing 'round the table in the room, his hands crossed behind his back, an ever-so-slightly confused expression on his face. "They're so patient, so quiet, so disregarding of what we do here… if I were in their position, I'd send in both those armies to put down this revolt right now. What are they waiting for? What are they doing? Why are they doing it? These questions, Andoril, drive me insane. Why do they not march? What are they waiting for?"

He finished his last circle around the table, this time, stopping by the map. "What about Tear? What's their position in Tear?"

"They've reinforced Tear with soldiers from Thorn and Stormhold," Andoril replied, "Their soldiers in Tear amount to six thousand, now. Say the city's not enough space for the army, so they've stationed some outside. Practically the whole city is rioting – if you've not stoned a soldier to death yet in Tear, you won't be well-liked with the populace. The Argonians are talking about setting those six thousand loose on the Dunmer and putting down those riots, and, Boethiah forbid, I think they might actually do it."

Lleran looked Andoril in the eyes, but couldn't see anything in them through the helmet.

"Trust me, Andoril; no one suffers more for their fate than I. But they have no choice but to wait for us. I know this sounds harsh, but: they've waited nearly two centuries. Six, if you include the time under the Empire. They can wait another month."

He scratched his chin, as he tended to do when he needed to think.

"Andoril, you're not from one of the Great Houses, am I right? Some kin of Anatwyne's, correct?"

"Cousin," nodded Irarak. "And, well, we're distant. We don't really get along well, either. She posts me wherever she isn't at, because apparently I never agree with her and ruin her plans."

"That's Anatwyne for you," smiled Lleran. "Don't get on her nerves by having a different opinion from hers. Just don't do that, and you'll be fine."

"I find it difficult to believe that someone as famously independent as you could say that. There're rumors about you, Lord Andalas, and I'm not referring to your drinking and whoring habits. Word goes through Mournhold that you're the only one whose advice actually values. Hell, there are lobbyist groups forming that have no goal but getting you on their side, whatever it is."

"Can't say I've noticed," Lleran smirked, almost maliciously. "More people trying to kill me in some fashion, on the other hand, yeah, I've noticed those. And a few people tried to bribe me to into things they couldn't put in simple words, so I interpreted them as invites to have them executed."

Andoril did not crack a smile, as most people would.

* * *

><p>"Your orders are very simple. Observe this house. There's a Dunmer woman, white-haired, not particularly old, however, inside it. I want concise information on everything that goes on. Her comings and goings in particular. And don't screw this up, people. Don't alarm her to your presence. Got that? Good. Good luck, people. For Morrowind; which I find ironic to say because none of you are quite native. When you feel like you've got enough information, get to me in the Morag Tong Guildhall."<p>

_It seemed all so simple, _a single thought awoke in the head of Is-Better-Than-You as he observed the ruins of Old Mournhold being engulfed by the sheer power of destruction. Fire swept through the underground caverns, incinerating anything in its way, while a murderous rockslide descended from the ceiling, crushing the ruins of a long-gone age, including what seemed to be a painfully well-preserved statue of Nerevar Indoril.

Thank the gods, whoever they may be, that the city of Mournhold-Almalexia itself was miles above them and felt nothing.

Or did it?

_Where did this go so wrong? _thought Is-Better-Than-You, as he sat down on a rock. He, D'hemka, and Salomon Sintieve were currently on an underground cliff ledge, observing the destruction of the Dunmer's most-valued historical artifacts in their prime. Manors, statues, even shrines and temples, ancient history through the ages, preceding all the Empires and pointing to a glorious, long-gone age for the Dunmer, being buried under tons of rubble.

The only bright side Is-Better-Than-You could see here was that Old Mournhold was so gigantic, extending all under, well, Mournhold, they barely ruined a fracture of it with this… misfortune. Oh, the shame. _If I watch this for another hour, I'm going to have to convert to Dunmeri ancestor and Daedra worship and go on apologizing to the ancestors of the Dunmer for Salomon shitting up a mission and ruining their ancient homes at every Waiting Door I find from Port Telvannis all the way south to Tear and west to Kragenmoor._

Is-Better-Than-You was not from Black Marsh. He was born in Targon Nuul, east of Blacklight – a small village, with only a few Argonians, nearly all of them a part of his family. As things stood, he grew up to feel more a Dark Elf than an Argonian, or rather, more an inhabitant of Morrowind than of Black Marsh – Argonia was distant, its culture missing from his life, but the Dunmeri ideals of piety, veneration of ancestors, charity and, perhaps most of all, their refusal to accept their doom and their will to never be broken, left a strong imprint on his life. He went to the extent that he stopped worshipping the Hist, for none of them he found in Morrowind, and thus saw no reason to do so. His parents sent him at a young age far away, to Kragenmoor, where he found himself stuck inescapably in an arranged marriage with the daughter of a Black Marsh diplomat from the south. However, (in the process shaming his family) he was cast out when he used his position to help three Hlaalu nobles, one of who was none other than the Grand Councilor Vonden Hlaalu, escape to Solstheim, fleeing persecution. Thus it came that he was forced to flee himself, with no family and no friends, on foot through the Shadowgate Pass in the Velothi Mountains in a desperate attempt to escape Morrowind.

He failed.

When he arrived at the Imperial border post, at that point empty, turned so by the Great War, in which the Argonians fought on nobody's side, he found himself unable to cross the border. He turned 'round, and gazed upon the country of his youth from there, high in the mountains. He could not cross those mountains. He would not leave his country in its time of need.

Before long, he found himself in Mournhold, seriously hell-bent on involving himself with the Dunmer underground. However, he had a run-in with the garrison, and only a riot caused by the inhabitants of the city that very same day saved him from being executed for his assistance to those three Hlaalu nobles back at Kragenmoor. In the riots, thousands of Dunmer slaughtered and were slaughtered by the handful of Argonians in the city, usually civilians and not soldiers to begin with.

The rioting went on for months, allowing him to escape justice, even if often narrowly. By the end of it, he found himself having developed a new identity, forgotten his old name and very being, proclaiming himself, with no little arrogance, "Is-Better-Than-You". The rioting, the anger, the hate, the swirling, awakening revolution and the chaos in Morrowind he decided to disregard altogether, wishing nothing less than peace and quiet, turned to such a line of thought by the bloodshed that occurred during the riots. Instead, he set up a lucrative business running an ebony mine near Darnim Watch, on the coast of the Inner Sea, and selling the ebony in Mournhold. When the rebellion struck, however, the workers of the ebony mine started a revolt and handed themselves over to national jurisdiction, thus rendering Is-Better-Than-You's ebony business permanently over. He found himself drinking a lot, more often in the inns and bars of Mournhold-Almalexia than in Darnim Watch.

"Salomon," growled D'hemka in an anomalously unfeminine way. "Not to point out the obvious, but you screwed up big time."

_Oh yes he did, _the Argonian surmised, observing as the flame devoured and melted what seemed to be a giant steel statue of Boethiah, unearthed only by the rockslide just minutes ago.

It started off pretty well. They were observing the shack…

* * *

><p>"… as Ralyn told us," hissed Is-Better-Than-You. "You do not move. You do not make a sound. You do not alarm the denizens of this place to the fact that we're here. What is there not to understand, you fool?"<p>

It seemed as if Salomon would finally crack. This was one final blow to his pride. And a really, really painful one.

"Fool?" he screamed, so loudly, Is-Better-Than-You was sure that if anyone was inside, they heard them. Sintieve shot to his feet in a remarkable speed, destroying Is-Better-Than-You's hopes of remaining hidden in their position behind a row of hedges just across the street from the house.

"Salomon Sintieve is no fool!" he shrieked, reaching for his staff, that he carried strapped to his back. D'hemka stood, preparing to restrain Salomon, should he do anything rash. And for a second, Is-Better-Than-You thought he was going to turn them both to cinders in rage. "Behold, foul beast of the swamps of Argonia, what the power of the magnificent Salomon Sintieve may do!"

Intuitively, the Argonian jumped up, but he didn't have enough milliseconds to intercept Salomon. For an instant, he thought that that was it, as the Breton mage generated a giant fireball at the tip of his staff. And then in the next instant, he realized that it wasn't, as the fireball launched at the shack.

Is-Better-Than-You hurled himself towards the shack only moments after D'hemka, who literally vaulted over the hedge and darted towards – or rather after – the flames. Followed by a squad of city guards, who turned up rather inconveniently quick.

* * *

><p>"We had to bribe and call on favors and complain to Lord Andalas and pay insane fines to get you out of the guards' hands, too," D'hemka continued growling at Salomon. "Thank Stendarr the house legally belonged to no one, at least we didn't have to meddle in any legal affairs. Honestly, I think we should've left you to them. You can thank all the gods there was nobody in that shack by the time, or we would've been extra…"<p>

* * *

><p>"… screwed," Is-Better-Than-You murmured. "Trust me. Once we go down this, we're screwed, and badly."<p>

"This" was a trap door, now burnt through the whole color spectrum all the way to black, found in the precise middle of the ruins of this house they burnt down. So it was to be expected that when they touched it, it collapsed into microscopic particles, sending dust intermingled with ashes into their faces.

Is-Better-Than-You glanced at the other two's faces and saw that neither of them particularly wanted to proceed. So he, naturally, pushed Salomon in first. Then he continued down the ladder below the trap door.

What waited below he had not expected at all. From a traitor to the Morag Tong, he expected, perhaps, he didn't know, maybe an ultra-developed secret lair, from where she plans her schemes, tangling all of Morrowind in a web of darkness and trickery? Instead, he found himself, and, naturally, his companions, in Old Mournhold, that underground ruin of a bygone age. And that traitoress herself was nowhere to be seen.

That was, at least, what he thought, until they descended deeper into the caverns.

Not too far away, they found a large, round, metal door, seemingly the only exit the cave they were in could boast. D'hemka nudged it aside, and they proceeded forwards. They beheld what was, probably, in Old Mournhold's heyday, a marketplace. Not too far away, a sign in an ancient form of Dunmeris stood leaning on a cavern wall, apparently an advertisement for some craftsman's adamantium armor. Surrounding what seemed to be an ancient square, stood rock formations that, centuries ago, may have been the manors of famous and glorious families. And in the middle of it all, stood a white-haired, but still young, Dunmeri woman in dark clothing and a leather cuirass, facing them. Beside her left arm, stood a tall, muscular, light-haired Nord with a rather long beard and a rather long warhammer on his back, while the Dunmer held a tightly-gripped, though not particularly long, spear and round shield.

"I knew you were coming," sighed the Dunmer woman. "I'd known ever since I saw someone watching me from the roofs of Almalexia, yesterday, as I went home down the street. I'm tired of waiting, now, of spending every waking hour in hiding. Of hoping that I won't fall dead the next moment. Of trying to fulfill promises and debts I cannot. It doesn't matter to me whether you come from the Tong or the Brotherhood; I have nothing else to say to you. Let us begin."

"We're from neither," quickly, before anything could happen, Is-Better-Than-You interceded. "All we want to know is if you have anything to do with the falsified orders in the Morag Tong, and we can be on our way-"

"I'll take no such risks, Argonian," surprising him, the woman smiled. "You see, as much as I am tired of life, I'd rather not give it up without a fight. And without taking the fight to the Brotherhood, who I owe certainly too much for me to be able to pay it off. And if you leave here alive, someone's going to know where I am. If it's not going to be the Tong or the Brotherhood, it's going to be you, and to me, that's bad enough. So I'm sorry, but-"

"This discussion is over, foul traitor!" Suddenly, Sintieve decided to remind the world of his existence. He nudged Is-Better-Than-You out of the way with such strength that the poor Argonian literally fell on his face, it colliding with the ground painfully, as the Breton mage generated, within seconds, a _gynormous_ firestorm lashing out towards Aryni and her Nord bodyguard, who took the daredevil approach to things, trying to somehow go around it and towards the trio. Salomon demonstrated a unique ability to be at one time insane and, as he called it, "magnificent" and simply increased the power of the inferno, it spreading over the whole of the marketplace. Within moments, Aryni's Nord bodyguard had been charred to cinders. Herself, however, she demonstrated even more sheer bravery, by trying to cover herself behind her shield, and slowly, as if a battering ram, proceeding onwards, into the eye of the storm, and at Salomon.

And she took the assault of the flame with remarkable will and toughness, covering behind the shield. It came to the extent that Salomon, as she was about halfway through, had to cancel his spell, for it drained him too much.

At that precise moment she darted forwards, eager to exploit the opportunity. But now, weakened, she was met by D'hemka, who, brandishing a menacing greatsword, rather simply halved her spear, while Is-Better-Than-You flung a few throwing knives at the Dunmeri woman that she barely evaded, while D'hemka finished her off with the greatsword. It was a really one-sided battle.

Yes, that was what all of them thought when suddenly the door of one of the ancient manors blew open and an _innumerable horde of thousands upon thousands of goblins emerged, attacking them without a minute of thought._

"Saaaaaaaaaaaalooooooooooomon!" Is-Better-Than-You screamed, as he, along the other two, dashed towards the way they came from, only to find another troop of goblins waiting for them.

"What?" the Breton mage screamed back, as he narrowly evaded getting a hand chopped off by a goblin sword.

"GET US OUT OF HERE, YOU RETARD!"

"WHERE?"

"ANYWHERE!"

"There, on that ledge!" D'hemka, suddenly, interceded. "Up there, you see? Right beside the ceiling!"

As you might've guessed, the ceiling was high. Goddamn high. Is-Better-Than-You couldn't even determine the gender of the many naked characters on the bas-relief carved into it.

Next thing Is-Better-Than-You knew, they stood on the aforementioned ledge – he couldn't remember, ever after, whether they were teleported or levitated there. And the second next thing he knew, Salomon decided to show off and cast another spell, this one bringing the ceiling down on the goblins deep below.

* * *

><p>"Oh, forget this, people," the Argonian sighed. "We've bickered, argued, and watched this enough. I'm tired. Let's go already. Salomon, if you tell me you can't use an Intervention scroll or something equally fast to get out of here, I'm going to throw you down with those goblins."<p>

The Breton was about to open his mouth when a gigantic statue of Azura decided it was about damn time to tumble down from the walls and descend to the floor, sending millions of echoes, each one more deafening than the last, through the cavern.

"… Yes, Argonian, I think you're right. Let's get out of here."

* * *

><p>"Well, people," Maenlorn smiled, with a strange, almost unsuitable-for-him honesty to his face. "It's time to move."<p>

They stood outside Almalexia's westernmost gate, Gorenea and Moriche having just arrived to find Ano and Maenlorn waiting for them. The sun was gradually fading away in the horizon, beyond the hills. Its red light shed a colored fade upon the land, the green of the Mournhold walls and the surrounding fields and hills partaking in an interesting game of catch with the orange of the eve.

"Why… are… there no… no… horses?" Moriche asked, after examining Maenlorn, Ano, Gorenea and all of theirs' gear.

All three of them laughed.

"Same question came to me when I first got here, friend," the Bosmer patted Moriche on the back, "There are few horses here. All that are there have been repossessed for the army, so it could move faster. You'd better get used to it. This is Morrowind, my friends! We'll hike all the way through this glorious land!"

Ano laughed, quietly. Gorenea smiled. Moriche seemed at first uncertain, but then his face, too, cracked a smile. And he laughed. In a clear, bright voice.

Maenlorn's arm shot up, now pointing forward. "Let's go, people! House Redoran won't screw itself up!"


	11. One Tiresome Day

**Recommended background music: **_**Keep the Flame Burning **_**– Hammerfall**

* * *

><p>"YOU FETCHERS!" was the first thing Ralyn Marvayn, Exalted Master of the Morag Tong, uttered – well, screamed – upon seeing the group that he had the unfortunate fate of being in command of now enter the Winged Guar. It didn't take a millisecond for him to literally fly up to Is-Better-Than-You, and at the very most another millisecond for Is-Better-Than-You to feel the assassin's fingers locking 'round his throat.<p>

"I told you to be careful," Is-Better-Than-You, through his own coughing, could hear him say. The Argonian noted that despite Ralyn being red with anger, he didn't squeeze his throat strong enough to strangle him. "I told you to collect information. What do you get me? A big fat zero. Not even nothing useful – you just get me nothing at all and, afterwards, place me in a position in which I had to give out about ten bribes as to not have you hanged. Do you even imagine how many guild rules you've had me break in order to make sure you don't go to jail?"

"I'm… am… so…rry…" the Argonian coughed out.

"Marvayn, stop! It's Sintieve! Salomon ruined the whole operation!" D'hemka finally decided to interrupt, literally shoving Ralyn's hand away from Is-Better-Than-You's throat. "It's that bastard," she hissed, pointing at the Breton mage just behind them, who understood not a single sound of the Dunmeris they were speaking.

The Morag Tong assassin, unlike most people would, Is-Better-Than-You assumed, had a remarkable ability to listen to reason. He walked up straight to Salomon, standing in the precise doorway, and punched him in the face.

The Argonian only blinked once. By the time that blink was over, the Breton was lying on the floor, motionless, unconscious.

"Well, now, that settles things just a little bit. Right, you two. Pick him up."

D'hemka did so, dumping him on a chair beside a table nearby. Is-Better-Than-You would not defile his own fingers by touching the Breton, however slightly.

Ralyn sat. They followed to do so as well. His expression bode ill.

"Alright," he said, after a long while. "Now that I've calmed down, tell me. Everything. What happened there, in Old Mournhold?"

The Argonian and the Redguard told him. He scowled.

"No information at all. None."

"It's Salomon! He-"

"He did shit. And did a magnificent shit too. You two should've stopped him from doing that shit."

"What? But-" D'hemka fell quiet, as the assassin raised a hand, gesturing for her to stay silent.

"You're part of the same team. This is the last time I decide to take myself out on Salomon for his mistakes. You're supposed to not let him do any, or it'll compromise the effectiveness of the whole mission. Sorry, f'lah, but you're going to have to cooperate, even if he is a n'wah and a s'wit and a fetcher of the highest possible level. Sorry, but that's how it's going to work if we want to achieve anything."

A period of silence followed. Is-Better-Than-You quietly whispered a prayer, omitting the part where you say a god's name altogether. Was there no one who could deliver them from this mess… or at least Salomon?

"People," sighed Ralyn, "right now, I don't seem to have any leads on where to continue the investigation. So I'm letting you go do whatever you want for now, while I collect some information in the Morag Tong. Meanwhile, I advise keeping your ears open. The city isn't quite as filled with people as it could be, what with the war – many are off with the army. You may overhear things most people, were they careful, wouldn't say. Well… as for now… Samia, get me some sujamma."

* * *

><p>Nathala quietly, slowly overlooked, from the Dunmer army's current intermediate stop at the ancient abandoned fortress of Ald Marak, the lowland to their west. From the hills on which the fort was built, a very clear, almost bird's eye-like view of the plains, both to the east – the Deshaan, and the Ralen Woods– and to the west – Lake Coronati and the Pryai River, with a vague glimpse of Narsis on the southern horizon – could be seen.<p>

Anatwyne, who accompanied her, however, was far from being quiet. She constantly complained, loudly, to the military leadership about how this waiting was driving her crazy. And Nathala couldn't blame her. Anatwyne had reasons to return to Mournhold. Nathala still couldn't for the love of Boethiah understand how a woman could fall for someone like Lleran to begin with, but apparently Anatwyne could. She felt (un)happy for both of them. Happy for the same things they felt happy for, and unhappy for when they didn't feel happy for it.

"Where is that bitch," she kept hissing. And when she said, 'bitch' – she referred to Marena Norvayn, hero of Kragenmoor, commander of a virtually independent, loosely-House Hlaalu and strongly-free Resdaynian-aligned army of thousands of Dunmer from central-western Morrowind.

Nathala's eyes quickly shifted from scanning the area towards the far shore of Lake Coronati.

"They probably got held up over there," she pointed towards the hills there, "at Heimlyn Keep. It's a critical position. There were probably some extra reinforcements for the garrison there. They want us to be held up long enough, waiting for the army from Kragenmoor, for their forces to escape to Narsis and patch up their wounds."

Anatwyne thought for a while. Quietly.

"We need to send scouts there. And quick."

"Already taken care of that," Tarvyn, who lately developed a unique habit to be everywhere at once, interceded. "Most scouts haven't returned yet, but from what I've been heard, yeah, there's a particularly resistant garrison at Heimlyn Keep. Marena Norvayn seems to be laying siege to it right now."

Nathala smiled at her lover. He smiled back. Ever since that little piece of advice she gave him, he was more active, more willing to take initiative, and more self-confident. And was less nervous and angry, and less disappointed, and was thoroughly feeling better. She prayed every dusk and dawn to Azura that he would not change.

"Hm…" Anatwyne scratched her forehead. "Good work. We'll wait for the scouts to report, and… then we'll see."

"We should move, if there will be no signs of Norvayn concluding her siege quickly," Tarvyn refused to close the topic. "Narsis is waiting. And the Argonians aren't. We need to finish off their northern army, here and now, or it'll escape to Argonia – or, worse, heal itself behind Narsis' walls and we'll need to face it, strong and prepared, once again."

Anatwyne sighed, a rather painful expression on her face. Nathala knew why. Tarvyn did too. "This'll take a lot more time, it seems."

Nathala smiled at her, walked up and patted her gently on the back.

"Yes, it will, Anatwyne. Yes, it will."

* * *

><p>Lleran hated the bureaucracy, by definition, as did most Dunmer. Their historical experience showed them that the bureaucracy is a very Imperial notion, and any Imperial notions meant really bad things for any Dunmer.<p>

And there was a thing he hated even more. _Being _the bureaucracy. So, when people came to him to ask for money, he didn't hide behind Imperial-esque excuses and lies. He outright either told them to go fuck themselves or gave them what they came for. In this case, he had the strong, moral-based inclination to do the latter.

"Wait, how much did you say you need, father?"

The nervous-looking, gray-haired, senile priest across the desk before which Lleran was sitting, scratched his chin. Lleran wanted to sue him for plagiarism so much at that point.

"Eight thousand septims, sera."

Lleran suddenly found himself in a bloody and merciless mental duel of gloriously _magnanimous_ proportions against himself. On one hand, the reconstruction of the Mournhold Temple, the rededication of the new place of worship to Azura, and the construction of a gigantic statue of the Queen of the Night Sky was no joke and may've been a gigantic boost to the morale of the people. Plus, Lleran needed some place to pray to Azura himself, what he found doing quite often nowadays. Primarily so she'd give him the gift of patience for the world and its outright stupidity that he found himself encountering almost every day now.

However, eight thousand septims was a lot. Especially in this time of turmoil, when, in the lack of a national currency, they were really dependent on the Imperial currency – which the An-Xileel never bothered changing in Black Marsh when they took control. Naturally, the Argonians with their semi-tribal organization never really cared about the economy – there was absolute decentralization – but the Dunmer did not enjoy this economic dependency at all.

After a long while of thought, his battle against himself ended in a nondescript stalemate.

"I'll give you six thousand five hundred," he finally spoke, "and get you a few mer to help you go through the city, asking for support for the temple. The people here got to ransack enough treasuries in the beginning of this revolt; I'm sure they have some to spare."

"Thank you, sera."

"You're welcome. Here, I'll put this in paper. There. Hand this scroll to the treasurer at the Royal Palace, Foryn Indaren."

"Azura bless you, sera."

"Thanks. She'd better too, because I seriously don't feel blessed much lately."

He was tired. Oh so tired. He felt he needed something. Worse, he knew precisely what that something was. Or rather, someone.

He missed Anatwyne. He couldn't help it – they might've told each other to forget it, but he couldn't, and he seriously doubted if she could. Hell, he was practically certain she couldn't. And he didn't care anyway – he missed her, missed her beautiful auburn hair, missed her gentle skin, and missed that way she grinned at him and no one else; to no one else did she ever concede enough attention as to grin. He missed it all.

Although the priest had only recently removed himself from Lleran's sight, the door to the Situation Room, which now included the addition of a desk behind which the councilor preferred to sit, even if that meant nothing but looking more menacing when somebody came in, didn't remain closed for too long. In came Irarak Andoril.

"Oh, right. Andoril. I wanted to talk to you about your plan to reorganize the guard here in Mournhold-Almalexia."

Just a few days ago, Lleran's "military advisor" had presented to him a highly detailed plan, placed on paper, of how to merge the innumerable groups of rebel-aligned groups created for the protection of the capital. The soldiers assigned to the streets would be reorganized into an orderly City Guard, numbering a thousand overall, hell, they'd even have their own uniforms. The soldiers on the walls, and those who have already been organized into orderly battalions in the Free Resdayn Army, would remain part of the army, therefore subject to potential withdrawal. The City Guard, on the other hand, would serve the purpose of keeping the city orderly and secure.

Irarak nodded, preparing for whatever the Dunmer councilor was to say.

"We've actually moved on to executing the plan, Andoril. We've started cleaning a few abandoned buildings down in St. Nerevar District. Going to set up the barracks for the new City Guard there. Meanwhile," here, Lleran smiled in his typical Andalas manner, "we need a new captain for the new guard. Have anyone suitable in mind, Andoril?"

Before the other mer could even hope of answering, he interrupted. "It does not matter, my friend, because I certainly do. Your new uniform and armor, to mark your promotion, wait in the armory of the Royal Palace."

Irarak blinked. Lleran laughed, quietly. "Off you go, Andoril. Unless, of course, there are any questions."

"None, my liege," after a while, Andoril finally managed speaking. "Thank you, serjo. Gods bless you."

"And you, Captain of the Guard. And you."

Of course, as Lleran wholeheartedly expected, he was not given peace and quiet yet. Lately, people had become disastrously aware of the power he wielded in Mournhold, being the only Grand Councilor still there. Naturally, people flocked to take advantage, in either positive or negative ways, of the power in his hands. What he didn't expect is that, instead of one of those people, someone altogether worse would enter. Arendur of Shimmerene, the Thalmor agent that was so precisely and carefully_ parked_ in the Winged Guar ever since his arrival to Mournhold, dressed in expensive, royal-blue clothing.

"I understand you've been having a lot of work, Grand Councilor?" the Altmer smiled. Lleran didn't like his smile.

"No. No, not at all. I just happen to be the only Grand Councilor in this godforsaken city right now. I definitely don't have a lot to do," Lleran virtually hissed. He was tired after a good day's work and did not want to be annoyed by this sad excuse of a mer right now. After a brief while of silence and Arendur quietly looking him right in the eyes, emotionless, not frightened at all by the cold in them, he lightened up a bit. "Sorry, Thalmor. I haven't exactly had a good day. And the little good I've had in it has been tempered more than enough by the bad stuff. Take a seat, Arendur. I assume there's a reason you're here?"

"Yes, my friend, albeit it sounds strange, perhaps even inappropriate to call you such, there indeed is. My king, his Majesty Sorcalin II of the Aldmeri Dominion, has decided that, well, knowing the Grand Council is busy with the war in the first place, that until it is physically capable to actually sign any deal to begin with, he would go send messengers to Titus Mede. Make it very clear for him that it is in his best interests to recognize the independence of Resdayn, in other words."

Lleran leant back. Slowly, calculatingly, he went through the potential results of this meeting. Of Sorcalin and Titus Mede's meeting. Of generally the Thalmor involvement in Morrowind, as weak and controlled as it was. Lleran did not like the Thalmor. Lleran did not like Arendur. He saw in them an ally only because of strategic use, of mutual need of assistance. And that mutual need of assistance, more than anything, drove him mad.

More worried, however, he was of this delay of signing an alliance treaty, of recognizing the independence of Morrowind. Arendur's words made sense: Lleran had indeed no authority, in the absence of the rest of the Grand Councilors, to sign any such treaty. Only the Lady High Councilor, Anatwyne, could, and even that could be argued against. But still. He was suspicious of this – for he was certain, that if the Thalmor really wanted that deal, they'd sign it in milliseconds. It may have meant King Sorcalin wasn't fond of the idea of a Resdayn that was not a client state. And Lleran wasn't all fond of him not being fond of the idea.

"Well, I suppose that's for the best," sighed Lleran, as quietly as he could. "Certainly increases our chances of not breaking into a war with the Medes, that's for sure."

"I've also heard of how you dealt with Uilernir," Arendur nodded and went on. "Good work, I must say. He's an arrogant twat, and needed to be put back in his place. That, of course, isn't King Sorcalin's opinion, which he will never form, I can assure you. That's my opinion."

Lleran weakly nodded. Azura, was he tired.

"What do you fight for, Arendur?" he asked, a few seconds later and rather abruptly too. "The Thalmor, that is. I've heard hundreds of your speeches, or at least read them, full of impressive rhetoric about how you are the saviors of elvenkind, how you will once and for all prove the superiority of mer culture and civilization over that of men. Can't say I disagree whereas culture is concerned – the scions of the Aldmer have created innumerable works of art and science, our achievements too many and too great to do justice to – but you can't go along and say mankind altogether is a weak, uncivilized, barbarian, worthless race. I honestly don't believe you'd go to the lengths you go to in your empire-building to prove such a point, because I honestly don't believe you believe it. What do you fight for, Arendur? With your navies and your armies and your High King, what do you fight for?"

Arendur thought for a while, scratching his forehead continuously in the process.

"We fight for our lands," he finally spoke, a while afterwards. "We fight, so never again our children will have to face the fate of servitude. We fight for our freedom. All the Aldmer's freedom. We insert our pride, our arrogance, into a practically noble cause, so it will seem stronger, more logical: why should a weaker species rule a greater one is a much more imposing question, you see, to an Altmer mind, than "Why shouldn't we rule ourselves?" And we are Altmer."

Lleran thought for a while.

"Trust me, Thalmor, these sentiments I can understand… but you present yourselves to the world in such a light, that it thinks you the bad guys, virtually without exception. Where will you come to the point where you think of your public relations?"

"We don't care whether we'll be hated by men. It's mer we want to be loved by."

"Oh, sure, Thalmor, that sounds pretty and well… the problem is, I don't think a lot of mer will sympathize with you by the end of the millennia. You know, Altmer, this dialogue between the two of us reminds me of less a shared discourse between two mer and more a collision of rigidly different personalities. You're a risk-taker, a venturer. You Thalmor all are. You take big risks, hoping to win huge victories. I take little risks to win enough victories. You know, I have a formula for whether a risk is worth taking. When the probable number of dead from an action equals the probable number of people who'll start to hate me for an action, that's when I do it."

Arendur looked at Lleran, a long, hard look.

"Was the revolution here itself such an action?"

The Dunmer could not find an answer.

"We're not that all different, Grand Councilor."

Lleran smirked. A nasty, nasty smirk.

"Yeah – among other things, we both distrust each other."

"That too, Grand Councilor. That too." Arendur stood up, walking towards the door, something of a wish to get the hell out in his movement. "Well, Grand Councilor, I wish you luck. If there's anything you ever need, just ask."

"Farewell, Altmer."

"Good luck, Dunmer."

* * *

><p>"Alright, people," Maenlorn was, as everytime, wearing his cynical and, hell, malicious smile when they sat 'round the fire, altogether – Ano, Gorenea, and Moriche – that night. He also wore light armor – he did so without the briefest interruption since they left Mournhold. Gorenea, not particularly fond of the Bosmer, called this new trait paranoia – Ano, always the good-hearted optimist, called it caution. Moriche preferred shaking his head twice.<p>

"Alrighty," he reiterated for no particular reason at all, "As things stand, we have a good day's road tomorrow to Old Ebonheart, from where we will take a ship to Blacklight. As some of you may and probably do know, it's a retarded name. New Ebonheart was effectively and rather painfully destroyed back when the Baar Dau, that giant boulder that Vivec should've thought twice about leaving hanging in the skies above the city of, well, Vivec, decided to descend to the earth after it realized the aforementioned god wasn't around anymore to hold it up in its place with sheer mental energy. Gorenea, I see your disapproving grimace and I must explain myself for going into such well-known details – we have an outlander in our midst."

Gorenea's lips tightened for a second before she growled:

"You mean yourself, Bosmer?"

Maenlorn's left eyebrow went up. His left _eye_, however, threw a glance at Gorenea's hand, which was precariously balancing on the edge of her sword pommel. His right eye saw Ano, who was rather tensed, observing what Gorenea was going to do.

If she drew that sword, it'd use up at least a second of time, which Maenlorn would use to vault back, towards his tent, seize hold of his bastard sword and-

And there he went. It was not part of the mission, slaughtering his own teammate.

"I am, Gorenea, indeed," he sighed, slowly. "Is that why you hate me so, or is there a better reason?"

She opened her mouth to say something.

And at that precise millisecond, an arrow slammed through the air, just past her, brushing just across her cheek.

The sharp, loud ringing of metal on metal resonated through the air as Ano's axe shot from behind his belt, colliding with the iron fastenings of said belt for just one second. That second Maenlorn spent, with great haste, turning 'round and speeding towards his tent.

He was one second too late.

Right in front of his tent stood an Argonian warrior, clad in steel plate armor, edged from both sides by another two, slowly approaching, looking rather menacing and with certainly unpleasant expressions on their faces. A few archers were nearing from the distance.

"Drrrrrrrrop yorrrrr weapons," they said, in a rather broken accent of Cyrodiilic. Maenlorn spat in response, his spit landing at the Argonian's feet.

"Next time you want to talk to me, don't pollute such a seemingly civilized language with your voice," he said, in Bosmeris, looking defiantly into the lizard's eyes. And before the Argonian could react, he dashed, slamming through the space between two of them, reaching for his sword. It was barely two steps away…

One of them he made, and that was when he felt a barbed Argonian blade slash across his left wrist, just barely, just downright a centimeter from evading that strike. It cut through the leather just barely, and just barely did the wound burst out in blood. Maenlorn fell, fell dramatically slow, reaching out for his sword, being lunged at with at least two more barbed swords in the process. And the next time, it would've not been _barely_ at all.

Ano and Moriche saved him. Precisely as one of the swords was about to bite at Maenlorn's leg, Ano's axe rather annoyingly plucked itself in the way, and Moriche assaulted the head Argonian, colliding with him in a furious exchange of blows. Maenlorn got to his feet, seized his sword, threw a glance to the archers – who Gorenea found herself going after – and, ignoring the pain in his bleeding wrist, sprinted towards the last Argonian of the three directly in front. He slashed with the sword, aiming for the Argonian's right shoulder – the blow was parried, but this gave him a second's advantage to slam his opponent in the left rib with a fist. The ineffectiveness of this action reflected in the Argonian bashing him, hard, with his shield and lunging at the staggered Bosmer with a sword. Maenlorn, parrying it, not for the first time today by nothing more than a pure stroke of luck, swerved with all of his might in a circle, slashing towards the Argonian in a wide, long swath of death. It sent the barbed blade flying right out of the lizard's hand, who staggered back in the process.

Maenlorn wanted to howl and finish his prey off, but… for some reason, the shout remained stuck in his throat. It was as if at that millisecond in time a brutal amount of pain appeared in his head, coupled with him moving forwards at a remarkably high speed, about to collide with some sort of wall, no less.

In seconds, as he saw the world literally _flip_, he realized. The pain in his head – it was getting hit with a club that produced it. The wall he was moving towards was the ground.

Maenlorn, in his last breaths before falling unconscious, sighed. This was a really, really bad day.


	12. The Battle for Narsis

**It's been an almost disturbingly long time since the last update. I was pretty sure I'd never update this thing again, for a while... but then I decided I might just give it a try. There's a bunch of plot ideas in my head – might as well use some of them.**

* * *

><p>Narsis was a big city. Spreading in all four directions away from its fortress, a huge structure located on a steep hill by the River Pryai. It was of a perfect octagonal shape, its towers shooting into the sky rather imposingly, connected by high stone walls that, at least for now, looked impenetratable.<p>

And that goddamn Argonian banner above them.

The city itself was ringed by a palisade. Nathala estimated it would take four hours for them to force the Argonians out of it if they attempted an assault, what the leadership was tempted to do so the Dunmer population would not suffer the pains of a prolonged siege of the actual city rather than of the fortress. After all, it was from the inhabitants of this city that they would then draw their strength in numbers to replace those lost in the battle.

Nathala expected to be given a command worth mentioning. She was the most high-ranking member of House Indoril here, and Tarvyn, who was Field Marshal, was also her lover. A bit of favouritism could be expected.

What she didn't expect was to be put in command of the vanguard, the whole thousand mer in the vanguard, and the greatest honor and glory of them all, according to bards – being the first in the army to step into Narsis. Being in the vanguard was starting to become an Andalas family tradition.

She started to think that Tarvyn may have just gone overboard with the favouritism this time.

As it had already happened so many times during this revolt, the Argonians were sending a messenger to parlay, and Nathala, Anatwyne and Tarvyn were standing quite outspokenly a few steps in front of the army, evident to all in a five mile radius that _they _were in charge here. Waiting for said messenger to get his arse over from the gate.

But unlike so many times during this revolt, the Argonians were of no interest to Anatwyne. She just wanted to make sure there was no faster way for her to go back to Lleran.

"Here are our demands," the redhead Dunmer began at the precise moment when the Argonian messenger arrived, defying even common courtesy of the emissary introducing himself, and Nathala immediately that it was hopeless to expect these demands to be anything short of too high for the Argonians to accept. "You hand us Narsis and your weapons and gold, and you're free to go. All of you lizard jerkasses can get your scaly arses off to Argonia. Otherwise, we will raise our swords and murder every single one of you that dares raise one back. Afterwards we will pike your bodies on Narsis' walls, every single one of your five thousand men – that is, beasts – or whatever number of them you've here. They'll be a wonderful decoration to the Black Rose of Morrowind flying above the city's towers again."

The Argonian nodded, to Nathala's surprise, weakly.

"I am Med-Ejhaz of the An-Xileel, Anatwyne Indaron," he introduced himself, of all things. Anatwyne raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I know your name, Dunmer. I accept your challenge. I dare you to take our lives. I dare you to raise the Black Rose above these walls again."

Nathala saw a wrinkle appear near Anatwyne's mouth that indicated she was grinding her teeth. Very, very tightly.

"We will not harm a messenger," Nathala interceded before Anatwyne could bother to do anything rash. "But you tempt our patience, Argonian. I, Nathala Andalas of House Indoril, refuse to stand idly by as you throw empty phrases designed to provoke us. Begone, Argonian! We have an assault to prepare, instead of having our time wasted by you."

Both Anatwyne and Tarvyn, both shocked and amazed, stared at Nathala. Med-Ejhaz slowly nodded.

"So be it."

* * *

><p>Lleran sat in his chair in the Situation Room, his chin and palm locked together in a thoughtful pose, his gaze pointed at the ceiling, legs crossed and on the table in front of him, consequently pressing the map of Morrowind on it just a little. His feet were only a centimeter away from a knife he, in a gesture typical of court schemers throughout the universe tended to occasionally stab into the map for extra strategic meaning, such as, "Here, we shall strike into the very heart of the threat!" or "We'll stab them right here!" or "I hear the tavern right here serves brilliant sujamma."<p>

He stole a glance outside the window to his right. Trains of wagons with building materials flowed to the northern part of the city of light and magic, to the Temple Square, where the eponymous building was underway to being restored to its former glory.

The Dunmer closed his eyes and thanked Azura. Somehow, the building of a temple to Her reminded him of how much She'd given him – from an orphan through a street rat all the way to the center of the very remaking of history She guided him. She'd given him a life when he lost it at a very young age, She'd given him food and water and everything a mer must have. She gave him freedom.

Only one other woman had given him as much as Azura had, and that was Anatwyne.

Somebody knocked on the door.

"Come in."

In came Irarak Andoril, not altogether unexpected. Unexpected was, however, the uniform he was wearing. On a suit of chainmail, he wore a dark teal tunic with a bronze-colored wolf-head embroidered on it, and some peculiar golden streaks of embroidery on the right sleeve whirling and wrapping around it. The wolf looked almost as ready to growl as Andoril always seemed despite his actual calm demeanor. The beginnings of a smile appeared on Lleran's face.

"How's our first captain of the City Guard taking his first day properly on the job?"

Andoril saluted Lleran, an expression of true and undaunted respect on his face. "Perfect, Grand Councilor. I wanted to thank you for this honor."

Lleran waved his thanks aside. "It's fine, really. You deserve this spot, Andoril. And don't let your cousin tell you otherwise when she gets back. Any idea of how the Temple reconstruction's going?"

"_I've_ an idea of how the Temple reconstruction's going," interceded the deep, calm voice of Ralyn Marvayn, coming from the doorway.

Lleran leaned back as far as he could in his chair. A cynical smile played on his face. "You don't say. I'd imagine this is not a piece of news I'd want to hear on a bad day, though?"

Ralyn raised an eyebrow as he sat down on one of the other two armchairs in the room. "_Is_ it a bad day?"

"Always a bad day when you come around. No matter what the day was before, you bring in some of that Mephalain mojo from the Tong that makes the rest of the day a catastrophe."

"Well then, you should be glad. This day, I'm not bringing any Tong mojo. I'm just bringing a set of news. First, I'm not sure if I told you, but those friends of yours that you hired to help me botched the investigation…"

"You told me. I'd rather not be told again."

"Aye, alright. Well, _f'lah_, we're investigating the links that unfortunate victim of an unfortunate game she played between the Tong and the Dark Brotherhood, Aryni Gilnith, had with the young fools in the Tong who nearly annihilated the Dark Brotherhood in Morrowind – thank Mephala. But from what we now found… we think we know what happened with her. Involve what feeble remains of the Dark Brotherhood were there in Morrowind – most have now fled, as their main leaders are dead – into a devastating war with the Morag Tong. The Brotherhood would be destroyed, thus the main threat to her life would be gone. As the Tong only operates in Morrowind, she then could escape the country without any Brotherhood operatives to report to their brethren in the West that there's an enemy of theirs on the run."

Lleran scratched his chin, slowly, thinking. "I don't understand, Ralyn. Why was she fleeing the Dark Brotherhood?"

"She not only sold Tong secrets to the Brotherhood, no, she was closely linked to a lot of their assassins. She occasionally even assisted them. But then, she tired of this, once she saw the Brotherhood was weakening in power. She decided to flee, as quickly as possible."

Lleran shifted in his chair, more to the right side. "Is she the mole in the Morag Tong that's caused us problems?"

"No."

"You could've said that earlier, Ralyn. Then I would've just told you to get the hell on with the next topic of the conversation. What's this I hear about the Temple?"

"Oh, the construction's going fine. A bunch of devout people have gathered to help construct it, both in a physical and fiscal manner."

Lleran glared at Ralyn, his gaze growing ever colder. Andoril, who, throughout the conversation, was leaning against a wall, uneasily shifted as he saw Lleran get angrier. Ralyn, always stoic, didn't care.

"Ralyn, I'm grateful for the info you've provided, but I'd also be grateful if I could get any info I can actually use anywhere."

Marvayn's expression did not change. "Lleran, I'm still working. _We're_ still working. Trust me. We'll catch your mole. One way or another. You're not the only one who loves this country, Lleran. You're not the only one willing to kill for it."

The Dunmeri councilor's glare somehow, almost naturally, changed to a smirk. "Now that," he said, a satisfied expression on his face, "that's what I like to hear."

* * *

><p>"My love," Nathala whispered, her forehead touching Tarvyn's, both of their eyes closed and both of them enjoying the other's sweet embrace. For the few seconds that it mattered, anyway. Soon, their fate would again be on the line – all in the name of Resdayn.<p>

"Promise me you'll return," Tarvyn said, quietly, caressing her hair.

"Only if you will."

They laughed. It seemed so strange to laugh when soon thousands of mer and Argonians would find their sudden deaths for the cause of greater good.

It would've, anyway, if they hadn't been in each other's arms then.

Somewhere far back in the army, a horn blew, its loud echoes resounding across the whole camp. And another one. And another. Thousands of horns took up the roar, as a female voice, probably Anatwyne's, screamed a loud battlecry:

"_**Resdayn!"**_

Nathala kissed her lover one last time before he ran off towards his command. For Nathala, all she had to do was take a few steps through the masses of people into the same spot where they'd met the emissary, just out of range of the enemy archers. She was dressed in armor already – lighter-than-usual steel plate from feet to neck, but helmetless. Her shield was a long wooden kiteshield.

"Warriors of Morrowind!" she yelled, facing her three thousand. Their faces turned towards her, whether their owners wore determined, frightened, or apathetic expressions.

"I am Nathala Andalas of House Indoril. I may not be as eloquent as my brother Lleran, but unlike him, I will not try to hide what I think behind a veil of words. I will tell you nothing but the truth – before us stands a hard task. Narsis is not a city to easily fall. The Argonians will be prepared – capturing the citadel will be no small feat. I will not lie to you; I do not promise you riches or power or even a safe return home. I promise you blood, steel, and for many of you, possibly a death. If you think you can face that for Morrowind, follow me. Remember this, children of Morrowind – Resdayn is watching! The world is watching! It needs to hear – hear so loud it pains its ears – the Dunmer _live_!"

The moment she said the last word was also the moment she was deafened by the roar of three thousand voices all at once, echoing through the plains around Narsis. Nathala unsheathed her sword, raising it above in what she was pretty sure was an aggressive gesture.

"Resdayn is mother to us all! Today, we fulfill our service to her with our blood! Boethiah is with us! To victory! Advance!"

Her personal one hundred men moved, huddling 'round her, soon followed by another three regiments of the same size. She called for a messenger, soon to come face-to-face with a young Dunmer boy.

"Get word to the catapults, and the ballistae. I want them to fire on the northern section of the palisade."

Soon after, she sent off another one, in a different direction:

"Get word to the rest of the infantry. They are to march, now."

With these orders given out, Nathala knew it was time to take this battle into her own hands. Her soldiers marched, slowly nearing the firing range of the Argonian archers…

A ballista bolt flew just past them. Missed.

"Ready your shields!" Nathala heard herself say, as if from behind the other side of a wall. She obeyed her own command, unslinging it off her back and raising her sword slightly higher and gripping it tighter.

"Loose formation!"

Again, she felt detached from herself as she issued the command. As she no longer felt the sweat of the mer 'round her, she expected to be able to breathe more. What a foolish expectation that was.

And that was when the archers, furiously, unleashed a succession of terribly sharp and pointy arrows and ballista bolts at them.

The Dunmer fell like wickwheat under a scythe. She counted the deaths. One… two… three… ten… fifteen…

She counted the steps left to the gate, too. A hundred… ninety five… ninety…

Twenty killed… eighty steps. Thirty killed… seventy-two steps. Fifty killed… thirty-four steps. Sixty killed.

Twelve steps.

One step to block the attack of the Argonian swordsman nearing her and behead him in one clean hack. Three steps to break past the four Argonians behind him – pirouette 'round them, then slash one's throat, parry another's blade and jump out of the way so a third's poleaxe would bite into the second one… Finish off the third and the fourth.

Ninety-two Dunmer killed.

Eight steps to slay the five remaining soldiers outside the gate.

An arrow biting into her shoulderpad. Her mer taking the Argonians down just a notch… Pain… Brutally and fiercely _ignored _pain.

Her mer setting fire to the gatehouse, her going for the royal prize – ascending the palisade despite the risk and the arrows, simply tearing past its sharpened wooden poles, and sprinting toward the burning gatehouse. All this she observed happen, still counting how many Dunmer would not return to their families.

A hundred and three Dunmer dead.

Chaos in the streets. The Argonians tried to flee for the fortress, but Nathala blocked their way – a cold fury burning in her eyes. She slaughtered her way up the gate tower, and from her vantage point on top of it, she looked to the north, to the bank of the Pryai. It seemed that the rest of her me, those she sent to the northern side, those she told to "march" weren't having as good a time as she was… Anatwyne was moving in with her men on that front, while Tarvyn led the bulk of the army after the path that Nathala cleared. But there still was resistance, some pockets of it, which fought as hard as men turn at the sight of a naked woman, because these pockets of resistance had simply nowhere left to run. She quickly added the approximate number of deaths on that front to her count.

Five hundred Dunmer dead.

The Dunmer army broke into the city on two fronts in full force, charging through the streets, chopping through enemy barricades, both actual ones placed to slow them down, and _human _– well, _Argonian _– ones… also placed to slow them down in their seizing of control in the city. However, the Argonians were not blind. They knew what defeat meant. So they fled, into the fortress on the hill, putting up only just enough resistance for their strongest comrades to escape.

Six hundred dead.

She felt the floor turning unstable, felt it turning to _cinders_. Of course, the gatehouse was burning. It was time to _jump_.

And she jumped, landing softly on the streets of Narsis once again, where the commonfolk were either extremely confused by what they should do or, in the case of the younger generation, taking up arms and joining the fight. Or just getting the hell out of there.

Six hundred and fifty Dunmer dead.

Nathala sighed. Death was a thing that she had gotten so used to, she wasn't alarmed by it anymore. Her hands crossed on her chest, she observed the slaughter continue through the streets all the way up to the fortress.

Nathala could hardly say she enjoyed a good life in the traditional sense. House Indoril "enjoyed" the most persecution of all the Houses under Argonian rule, alongside House Dres. Therefore, Nathala was born a refugee in the secret monastery of Holamayan. Later, when the monks of Holamayan began supporting the Dunmer underground, she signed up. There, she found many things – or rather, people – that changed her life forever. Tarvyn, the young Hlaalu nobleman, with whom she became rather intimately involved. Chazmag, a Dunmer-raised Orc, fierce hater of the Empire and of Argonia. Anatwyne, the rarely-smiling leader of the resistance. Perhaps most importantly, and certainly the most surprisingly – Lleran, her _lost younger brother._

Lleran, as their mother later explained, was born barely a year before Nathala. Argonian persecution forced them to flee their home. However, when they reached Mournhold on their way north, a sudden illness took Lleran and Nathala's father's life. Their mother was afraid that without him, she would fall victim to bandits along the way, and feared what might happen to Lleran in such a case. So, instead, she left Lleran with a lowborn Dunmer woman, still young, but already a widow, her husband having died a year ago in the Dunmeri resistance. Lleran was left a way to find his true family, though. An amulet of Mephala was left behind alongside him by his biological mother. Decorated with the Indoril family crest. When Nathala met Lleran at Holamayan, she was outraged that a commoner would dare wear the mark of an Indoril nobleman, and the two almost came to blows. However, their mother intervened in time, recognizing the same amulet she had given her son, and Nathala's great anger quickly transformed into nondescript joy.

The resistance gave her _life_. With it, she discovered the world beyond Holamayan. Somewhere beyond a rocky cliff on the edge of Vvardenfell lied a new destiny, a new tomorrow for the Dunmer. Nathala knew, life taught her – it was a thing to yearn and to fight for.

"Good work," she heard the voice she loved the most say behind her shoulder. She smiled.

"Not too shabby yourself," she replied, jokingly punching him. Her grin widened even more when Tarvyn drew her into his embrace. "You'd make a good military leader with some practice, you know."

Tarvyn touched her cheek. The heat of battle raged on 'round them, but somehow, they just didn't give a damn.

"We should get married, you know," Tarvyn told her, with a face that was either all too serious or all too not really serious.

Nathala drew aside. "Is that a proposal?"

"Well…"

"Is it or not?"

"Yes."

"Then that's your answer," she broke into laughter, "Yes! Yes, Tarvyn, and it's about damn time that you asked."

She kissed him, because of how funny his surprised expression was. It was too funny to let it stay there.

The battle raged on. The Dunmer swept over the Argonians, perpetrating a bloody massacre all the way through the streets and up to the fortress.

One thousand Dunmer dead.

* * *

><p><em>For the love of Meridia… where am I?<em>

"Moriche" swore profusely, somewhere in a very dark and faraway hidden corner of his mind. He was hoping what he'd seen yesterday was a dream, but now… he knew very well where he was – he was in the hands of one of those scaly things. He knew that without even opening his eyes.

Or, he could've been in heaven. He didn't remember quite if he stayed alive after yesterday's battle. But then, he should've been enjoying a grandiose feast with Meridia, goddess of the sun, and all the dead heroes of his people. Most of his people's heroes were dead. Mostly because most of his people were dead.

That was precisely why he didn't want to open his eyes. He feared he was actually indeed dead. None of the great Ayleid kings would like a newcomer, he reckoned, as one of his people dying is such a rare feat nowadays when so little of them are alive.

He heard Maenlorn's voice. Said "Moriche" with his terrible Bosmer accent. The Ayleid's eyes snapped open.

It must be remarked, right about now, that "Moriche" chose his "name" retardedly. Anyone who looked at a history book would find that "Moriche" just means "Dark Elf" in Ayleid. So it was not only a lie, it was a ridiculous lie to make on a journey to Morrowind. Just the type he liked.

They were in a tent. Maenlorn and Gorenea, not really seeming to enjoy each other's companionship, sat by each other, mostly because their hands were tied together. "Moriche" tried moving his. Couldn't.

The wood elf said something. Something grim and in some manner involving "a good night's sleep" and marsh lizards.

"Moriche", in actuality Eratanel of the Aranewelke clan, destroyed almost completely over the ages, reduced to seeking refuge in the deepest caverns in the darkest forests of Cyrodiil, expelled from their ancestral home by the merciless expansion of mankind, grunted something he didn't quite understand himself in Dunmeris. How ironic it was, him calling himself "Moriche", yet knowing so little of Dunmeris.

He looked, with a quizzical expression forcibly carved into his face, at Maenlorn, as if to ask, "Where's Ano?"

Maenlorn smiled knowingly and said something about scaly marsh lizards and questions. Gorenea said something to the Bosmer. They, then, ignoring Moriche, proceeded to argue. Rather loudly. The Bosmer said something about dogs, to what Gorenea responded by slapping him and screaming even louder. Something about how they would've not screwed up as bad if they'd stuck to the roads on their way to Blacklight instead of taking shortcuts through the woods.

"We're going… where?" Eratanel decided to interrupt their sparring.

Maenlorn said something about Oblivion. Gorenea chastised the Bosmer (again) and said something about finding a way out of this somehow.

The Ayleid sighed, quietly. His little random trip into Morrowind did not turn out well at all. All he wanted was a place to go after getting kicked out of the Khajiit caravan he'd travelled with for the last five years. And the country he decides to visit happens to be in complete and utter chaos at the time, hell, it's in the middle of a revolution. The joy. That's what you get for not knowing any Cyrodiilic. You're always backward in regards to recent developments in the world.

One of the scaly marsh lizards entered, literally kicking Ano inside. To Eratanel's great surprise, the Dunmer was laughing. Laughing like mad. The lizard kicked him and left. Ano, still laughing, yelled something about long life, a king, freedom, and Dunmer.

This was really, really fucked up. It became even more evident when a couple of those lizards forced him out of the tent and asked him some questions. Eratanel did the only thing he could.

He shook his head twice.


End file.
